No One Can Stop Me Now
by The Magnanimous Cockroach
Summary: Set after the events of the book, chronicling the adventures of Synergy, a kleptomaniac supervillainess, and the attempts of the heroes of the year 2041 to stop her and a certain Doctor Impossible from executing their plan for world domination.
1. Through the Veins of History

Some people work well under stress. I guess I'm one of them.

And let me tell you, nothing in the world can be quite as stressful as police cars, helicopters, and caped crusaders all chasing after you at once. I had to hurry this time to slap a sticker across my handiwork, a half-melted room full of safes which ironically were pretty easy to find. I've robbed a lot of banks in my time, but this one was child's play.

I don't particularly care for peoples' personal effects – old jewelry, out-of-circulation coins – none of that really matters to me. I'm interested in cold, hard cash. Show me the green, baby. A robber like me would've done great in the good old days, but now ninety-seven percent of the world's currency doesn't even exist in paper money. I suppose I could go after precious metals. Gold and silver are worth quite a lot these days. But money inflates. Gold doesn't. Half the fun is the thrill of the chase, knowing that I'll never be able to collect all of the money... not until I do. I really will do it. Then I'll just buy the gold up and have what I estimate to be a few quintillions of play money still laying around.

I guess once I control the world's currency, I'll control its land, too. Everyone's land is founded on gold. That's why China technically owns all of America. But the thing is, I don't want the land. If I have all the money in circulation, if I just keep it close to me like a blankie, I'll be happy.

People tell me, the other villains, "The things you could do with all that money!" They ask, "Hey, Syn, spot me a thousand?" But the thing is, I don't want to give it up. I don't want to spend it. It's power, you know? Just having all that money. Just owning it. Paying people when I need to, paying them off, paying them _on_. That's all I want. After all, anything I spend will eventually come back to me anyway. Like a gold-plated boomerang. A _representational_ gold-plated boomerang, but let's face it. We all like the smell of crisp new bills. Gold doesn't smell.

Speaking of those nice green bills, though, that's my problem. I collect all the bills in the world, and I've still only got three percent of the planet's money. It's nothing. And I'm no hacker. Truthfully, I'm not even that smart. I'm great at physical robbery, but I just don't have the resources to tap into all that electronic mumbo-jumbo. It's like a foreign language. Besides that, technology doesn't seem to take too kindly to my special brand of psychic energy. The whole science versus magic thing; I'm sure you're familiar. It's not like I haven't done my research. I've been putting it off, but the man is gaining leverage, however slowly.

I've been all over the world, accumulated close to thirty trillion dollars, including savings bonds I've stolen when redeemed at their full value. No small sum, certainly. But there's only twenty trillion or so left in the world. Sure, I've been at this for years, but eventually it'll run out. And they're devising ways to stop me. You can't steal over half of the world's paper money and not have people know your name. Your supervillain name, that is.

Anyway, I need help, fast. I need to attack them in new ways they haven't seen coming. I need someone innovative. Someone who can build weapons. Someone who can take all that land off my hands once I get what I came here for. Someone who knows technology in ways I don't. Someone who _speaks _to it. Like I said, I've done my research. Mad scientists today aren't what they used to be, so I started looking at _yesterday_. I need the World's Smartest Man.

Don't ask me how I rigged up the time machine. They've had them since 1940, and I managed to snag a handy little wristwatch-sized one from a museum of superhero paraphernalia. That's probably about all you're interested in knowing. It was costly and too complicated for my tastes, but it was my only hope. Besides, it isn't just a time machine but a sort of teleportation device, which I think will be pretty useful for getting exactly where and when I want to go.

Time traveling feels something like being knocked out. You seem to fall and rise in a few seconds, but there's a definite feeling that more time than that has passed. Maybe it makes it easier for your body to deal with. I'm no scientist; I don't know. What I do know is, one second I'm in my hideout, safe and sound in the year 2041 (and in a location I'm not going to disclose to the likes of you), and the next I'm in 2009 in a maximum security prison for metahumans. One glance tells me I've made it to the right place. Before I introduce myself, I cloak myself in a layer of plasma.

I guess I should explain what it is I'm doing here, because "plasma" isn't exactly a suitable word for what really goes on. It's pure mental energy, really. Call it what you will; psychic power, magic, telekinesis, I've got it. I call it plasma because it seems to flow like some sort of ooze, and it interferes with the physical world more than the authorities might like.

This stuff is superheated. I can already feel it beginning to melt through the metal floor of the cell. This'll be a cinch. But the real reason for the cloak is that it fries all sorts of waves. Now I'm just a lump of flickering static to the cameras. Still suspicious, but not nearly as much.

"Doctor Impossible," I greet the man standing across the cell from me. He's in a fighting stance, ready to take me out, and my green aura flickers across his skin in the dull light of the cell. He looks older than he did in the pictures, but, with hope, I chock it up to the weird lighting.

"Who dares?"

"Synergy dares," I reply, with a concise nod. I stretch out my hand toward him and pull the plasma away from it. "Million Dollar Woman. Pleasure to meet you, Smartest Man in the World."

He still looks shocked, probably calculating the situation or something smart that I don't do, so I pull my hand back and try to crack a smile. "Just flew in from 2041, and boy, are my arms tired." God, I need to work on my routine. Did I mention I wasn't one of those take-over-the-world-speech villains? This is why I need the man.

He seems to notice my wristband, and it makes a little more sense to him. "What are you doing here?"

"Breaking you out of jail, sir." Even when I try to be genuinely decent, my remarks seem to drip with condescension. I've never been a people person, but then, have most supervillains?

"What?"

"I said I'm breaking you out. Let's get out of here." My feet have melted about an inch and a half down, but I'm afraid to move lest Doctor Impossible try to tackle me, and they probably make the floors here thick anyway. "We should probably go. I don't know what guarding systems are like here, but I have a feeling..."

"Put your hands in the air!" comes a voice from behind me.

"Here we go again." I turn around to face the guard, but unless he's been to more eras than I give him credit for, he doesn't recognize me. I wasn't even born yet. A few long tendrils of plasma snake toward one remarkably thick glass wall. I sense some sort of force field acting on it, but this cage was meant to keep Doctor Impossible in, not me. Still, this makes things harder.

"Shut down your powers, ma'am," says a second guard. They're both carrying guns, and I can see tasers at their belts. Not that either of those things will do me much harm. "Obey and we will escort you out peacefully." I do as they say, removing the cloak. Someone's going to have to come in here to get me to make sure I don't try anything funny, and when they do, I'm totally trying something funny.

I guess I'm a little trigger-happy, so to speak. As soon as the door opens, a seamless rectangle in one wall of the glass tank, I'm on it. One tendril after another, shot from my fingertips, singes the guards. I'm not turning the heat on yet, but I don't want to really hurt anybody. The Doctor doesn't do much, but he's probably as shocked as they are. And I wouldn't want to get close to a psychic power either unless I'd known what it was.

Pretty soon I'm out of whiplashes, but the jail doesn't seem to be out of guards. Starting to panic a little, I turn back to the man in the far side of the room. I wouldn't call it cowering, but he's keeping his distance. "Come on," I urge. "I'm almost out of juice, and the time machine only works one way." This probably wasn't something to be thrifty with, but I figured I'd spent enough money stealing it and having it repaired to (halfway) working order.

This time the World's Smartest Man is way ahead of me. He shoots past me, faster than I'd thought, and leaps over the prone, moaning bodies of a few of the guards I'd felled. I follow eagerly. He's probably already got his own plan for after his inevitable escape (or assisted breakout) and I'll have to convince him to follow mine instead. Afraid to use the last of my energy until I have time to rest, I chase him on foot, and I can just about keep up.

Certain things most metahumans are endowed with. We have inhuman strength, speed, and agility, some greater than others. Generally people are pretty balanced out. I'm not the strongest or fastest in the world, but my psychic abilities compensate for it. Doctor Impossible, on the other hand, is stronger than me and pretty damn quick on his feet. I'm winded by the time I reach him, standing in front of a metal door I assume is pretty thick, considering the punch marks on it have only made dents a couple of inches deep. A red light flashes and a siren blares above the doorway.

"Almost home free," I pant. "What now, genius?"

"I thought you were breaking me out."

I lift a finger. Good point. "Promise me you won't run off and start on your next evil scheme before I can rest enough to restrain you if I have to."

Doctor Impossible glances nervously behind us. I can hear guards coming, and I guess he's given the door his all. "Or what?"

"Or you can have another attempted breakout added to your list of crimes."

He contemplates it for a second. "Fine. I promise. What did you say your name was again?"

"Synergy." I focus all my energy into the palms of my hands. Seventy percent off, everything must go. Slowly, but surely, a hole melts in the center of the door. Molten metal drips down and sizzles on the floor. It has a foul stench, and I wonder what they must've put in the door to make it do that. Probably nothing pleasant.

A three foot tall hole, about two feet across, and I'm spent, but we can both get through. I make sure to slap a sticker on the door on my way out. It won't become relevant for another twenty years or so, but I have to leave my calling card. Doctor Impossible isn't terribly tall for a metahuman, and I'm not terribly tall compared to him, even with the heels on. A girl has to look her best.

Once we're past that final door, I can almost smell the fresh air. It's been a long time since the last time I was locked up, which I guess is something to brag about. I've been pretty good about slipping out of the man's grasp. From here on out, it's just punching and kicking through your average jail hallways, which doesn't pose much of a threat, especially with the Doctor in front of me. I can punch through a wall alright, but his strength is still titanic next to mine.

Finally, we're out in the grass, running for our lives. Bullets _ping _off the smart fabric of my bodysuit and don't seem to hurt Doctor Impossible when they hit him, and we can't help but share a smile. I'm sure this is a lot more gratifying for him than for me, but all supervillains share the experience of special moments like these. Jailbreaks are as universally appealing as a nice game of Monopoly, at least until someone decimates the board with their death ray. Villains aren't the greatest crowd for game night.

Once we make it a good way into a stand of trees, I'm tired of running. Who knew maximum security jailbreaks would be so much work? I grab Doctor Impossible's wrist and pull him to the ground. He probably could've shrugged me off if he'd been expecting it, but luckily I'd had surprise on my side.

He gives me a dirty look. "We're not staying here."

I shake my head. "Are too."

"Let me rephrase that," he says. "_I'm _not staying here."

"You have a promise to make good on, Doctor."

"For Christ's sake, I'm a supervillain. I don't keep promises."

"I'm a supervillain, too. That's like a double negative. It's a positive. And you owe me."

"Owe you what?"

"Oh, nothing. Just a chance to give you my sales pitch."  
"You go all out with this business thing, don't you?" Doctor Impossible makes a _tch _sound. "Theme villains."

"Let me finish. How'd you like a chance to take over the world? The _future _world? And all the land you could ever want? By that, I mean Earth."

"All of it?"

"All of it."  
"What's the catch? Why break me out of jail and offer me that?"

I wave my hand in the air, a swift, cutting motion under the stars. You don't get stars like that in 2041. Or if you do, I've never seen them. "No catch. I just want all the world's money."

"You want _what_?"

"The money. Currency, simoleans, moolah. Dollar dollar bill, y'all."

"I got that part. But _why_?"

I shrug and heave a sigh that's partially still a wheeze. I'm not used to running this far. "Don't know. Why do you want to take over the world so badly?"

That catches him off guard. "Power, I guess? Nature? Mental illness?"

"Join the club, buddy. Being a superhero wasn't ever going to get me what I wanted, so I jumped ship. I don't know what my compulsion is, but I want to be _rich_. You could help me."

"Help you how?"

"Set my plan into motion. Hack the banks. In 2041, ninety-seven percent of all the world's money is digital. I need you to get that digital money for me."

"And you will...?"

"Finance your evil plan. I'd prefer not to use all of it, but if you help me, I guess it won't matter. I have thirty trillion dollars at my disposal." I think I hear his jaw drop, and I almost laugh. "It's not as much as you think. Inflation took a pretty big toll on it, but it's equivalent to about ten trillion in today's money."

"That's... considerable." He seems to be wondering something devious. Hopefully not thinking of stealing my money and buying Germany or something.

"Yes it is," I agree proudly. "Let it sink in. Thirty trillion dollars. A simple contract. The world for its money. And a sexy partner in crime."

Another dirty look. I wiggle my eyebrows, but I doubt he can see.

"And you can promise me this?"

"Yes, sir. A businesswoman always keeps her word." Things were definitely going in the right direction. Maybe he hadn't had time to think of a better evil plan before I'd come along.

"Fine. You've got a deal." Now just to make sure he doesn't double cross me. But money always trickles back.

I sit up in the cool grass, feeling a little rested. My heart is still beating quickly, but my powers are returning. The cloak was what took so much of a toll on me. I finally manage to get a good look at the man next to me. Orange prison garb. Not as wrinkled as he appeared under the light green of my plasma. Dark hair, a neglected goatee, bright blue eyes. Thin. Not a bad looking guy by any standards. You can just see the scarring from the accident that gave him his powers. It occurs to me that we need to get him into a costume or something. In that bright orange, he sticks out like a sore thumb, just as he's supposed to.

Then I remember Doctor Impossible's color scheme: red and gold. Subtlety was not his forte. But he's in a different generation of heroes from me. True, in 2041 people are a little stealthier – look at my black jumpsuit; it's a perfect example – but they weren't always that way.

"You got a costume stashed somewhere?" I ask. It's a stupid question, but at least it gives me a good excuse for staring at him like an idiot.

"Of course." A nice smirk.

2041 is not as I remembered it. I know I was bragging about doing my research on this whole project, and it went pretty well up until we got back to my time. I guess I just didn't really think of what the consequences could be for taking Doctor Impossible out of his own time and into mine. For thirty-two years, the man disappeared off the face of the Earth. I can imagine what the heroes must've gone through, but I'm sure they gave up after the first few years without a peep out of him.

There's something... good about this place. Everything looks a little nicer. These results are pretty predictable if you ask me. Looks like not much changed, but there's a deficiency in evil. Too many heroes, not enough villains. Walking through the streets in civilian clothes, complete with a burkha (my skin's just dark enough to pull it off), I see heroes flying above the Boston skyscrapers. It's a little intimidating, and I can see Doctor Impossible's worry behind his sunglasses.

"Feeling good?" I ask, half-jokingly. "The balance here seems off, and just because you disappeared for a while. Must be nice to have the world's supply of evil hinge partially on your existence."

The good Doctor just scoffs at me. I got to notice he isn't much for talking unless it's really important, at least to him. Strange character, very strange. Probably a serious introvert before he got good at the evil laugh.

Time to go see what me-from-the-dimension-where-Doctor-Impossible-doesn't-exist managed to hoard into her stash. I know I'm taking a serious risk showing Doctor Impossible the location of my secret money hoard, but hopefully I left it in the same spot. We enter a discreet red brick apartment building bordering the trees and grassy mall of Commonwealth. I take the stairs down two stories to a basement that the elevator doesn't go down to, fish a key out of the pouch on my left shoulder, the same one I keep my stickers in.

There's a brief moment of trepidation, but the key fits in the lock in this door. Not too much has changed. I count myself lucky. I hadn't considered _anything _would change. There's something to remember next time I go carousing around through time.

The basement looks like a giant janitor's closet, and it probably is. That hasn't changed. But when I feel around the back wall where the invisible seam to my secret entrance's doorway is, nothing's there. I trace the full path of the door, just to be safe. I even scratch off a little of the white paint to make sure the door hasn't been sealed that way. Nothing. I must've hidden the money somewhere else in this dimension.

But a thought sneaks into my head. And then it hits me. There is no me here. I took Doctor Impossible from the past and returned to this moment in the future, but it's not the same future I left. A world without Doctor Impossible is one where I've traveled back in time to perform a hasty jail breakout, to return to a future I skipped over entirely, up until now. This alternate reality hasn't seen me yet. Which is good, and bad. Good because they won't see me coming, bad because...

"What's wrong?" Doctor Impossible asks, derailing my thought train. It was carefully balanced on one rail anyway. I really should've thought this through better. But like I said, thinking isn't exactly my strong point.

"Uh. What do you mean, what's wrong?"

He cocks an eyebrow at me. Apparently lying isn't my strong point, either. "You've been pawing at that wall for a few minutes now. What are you looking for?"

I take a deep breath. "I would try to put this in a gentler way, but I can't think of how to, so I'll just be frank: the money's gone."

"_What._"

Oh, crap. He's going to beat me to a pulp. I could fight back, but I don't want to. He's my only hope. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I sincerely apologize. I didn't think..."

"You don't _think _at all."

"Yeah, I know. That's the problem. But we can get it back. It won't take long with both of us working together. You can hack their systems and make weapons, and... you know. Do your thing."

"And where will we get the _money _for that?"

"I'll..." Cringe. "Steal..." Cover my head. "Some..." Scrunch my eyes closed. "More?" _Shit. _He's totally going to murder me. Nice going, Synergy. So much for having all the money, now you'll be lucky if you walk out with all your limbs intact. If you _can _walk.

Just as I'm about to peek up (the suspense is really getting to me) I hear an exasperated sigh. "You are such a complete failure. Fine, I'll show you how it's done." Doctor Impossible mutters something about heroes apparently not being what they used to, and an insolent child like me would never have made it in his day. I don't care. Condescension: A better alternative to death! I'd rather have my ego crushed than my skull any day, and it was still by Doctor Impossible. I don't think being called a failure by the World's Smartest Man is really saying much, and coming from him it was still sort of a compliment. Maybe he sees hope in me or something.


	2. Unseparated Twins

What does it mean to be a villain?

Eight years and I don't know the answer. Does one have to take over the world to be a villain? Attempt to do so? If that's the case, then I'm no villain. I don't even have villainous intentions. But that's an awfully narrow crevice to stand in, and it leaves a lot of gray area and a lot of bad people unspoken for.

Maybe I'm one of those bad people, but I don't think so. I guess I could classify what I do as "evil", but I'm not out to hurt anyone. My goals are entirely selfish, which could turn out either way. But I don't mow people down like grass to get what I want. I don't like to hurt people at all. Really, if they could all just leave me alone, I'd be perfectly fine. Just me and a big pile of cash.

I guess I was sort of always like this. I didn't grow up in a poor home or anything. Just a nice suburban house with a white picket fence. I was never very special. Not particularly brave or smart or talented or friendly. Quiet. Average. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown grades, brown life. Brown.

My powers surfaced weeks after I got my period for the first time. At least the blood wasn't the strangest thing to worry about anymore. My parents took me out of public school and my mother homeschooled me instead. With my name off the records, it was easy to disappear, almost too easy. I ran away and acted as something of a lone vigilante. I was young, supple, illegal. I would lure people over to me, and then take them out. I gained recognition for myself, and a name. That name was Ectoplasma. At the time, I didn't have a costume, just a set of activewear and a scarf over my face. It wasn't much.

But soon my name became known, and I was invited to work with New York City's number one crime fighting team, the League of Righteous Fists. All were natural-born metahumans, including myself. Or, at least they had powers gained from accidents. None of those government sponsored crimefighters you see so many of nowadays. Anyway, I joined the League eagerly and donned a real costume with their logo on the chest. I made money.

Perhaps those first few dollars were what initially corrupted me. Money meant control. I'd never had control over anything in my life, besides convicting rapists, and that gave me a certain high that only power can give. My powers weren't quite under my control, but I was under my parents'. Grades, work, structure ruled my life. Maybe I've always had issues, but money gave me an outlet. I could do whatever I wanted with it. Once I collected enough, I'd be out of range of the proverbial Long Claw of the Law. And that's where things went downhill.

I only spent two years with the League of Righteous Fists, and I didn't ever really fit in. Pinstripe Chrome and the Civilian had been long time buddies. Claymore was a loner like me, but too mysterious for my tastes. BlindSide was shy. Feral hung out with the Beastmaster, who was a halfway decent guy, but very preoccupied with the aforementioned subject of a shady breeding project. I think they were involved or something. The other members of the League aren't worth mentioning. So when I was eighteen, I ventured out on my own again, newly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And I knew exactly what I wanted.

I'd been interested in the mechanics of business for a while, and now I knew of my fascination with money. It made sense. So I took a new name, bought a new costume on the League's budget, and ran off without looking back. And it's been pretty much smooth sailing from here on out. Up until now, anyway. You've got to know what you want, and I guess if you're not a superhero, then you really are a villain, to tie that all back into my rhetoric. But the missing money is a minor setback in my master plan. _Our _collective master plan.

Doctor Impossible's been testy lately. Well, testy ever since I lost all my hard-earned cash. The hard-earned cash I may or may not have promised to fund his plan with. I stole more, and he's almost got a full supercomputer rigged up in the air conditioned storage facility we rented on the outskirts of Boston. _I _rented. It's our home at the moment. We're flying under the radar upon request of the man himself.

Mostly he sends me out on errands. "Fetch this gigathing, child." (Terrathing, kilowatt, whatever.) "Go to Radio City and get me two of these red wires," (he'd show me a picture online) "and one of these yellow wires." "You are an idiot. That's not the right yellow wire. I wanted a megabit compuboard wire." (Or something.) If I didn't already use magic, I'd definitely think that's what Doctor Impossible was up to. But I guess it's his own brand of magic. Mine's just different, and blows fuses instead of... um. Fusing them. Is that what fuses do?

I've tried to be patient with him. Apparently I'm pretty infuriating, but at least he puts up with me. It's been lonely. Doctor Impossible isn't an especially talkative person, and neither am I, usually, but while I count my money and nap when not on the job, he's constantly tinkering with his machines. I'd hoped he'd finish one and maybe show me how it works. Geniuses are supposed to like sharing their creations. Or their master plans. But I don't know the first thing about what the Doctor is up to. At least I wouldn't make a good hostage for any ambitious heroes.

"What are you doing?" At the sound of my voice, he starts and something in his hands sparks. He turns to face me, eyes smoldering under the helmet. Even though I've seen his face uncovered, he refuses to remove his stupid costume. Dignity, I guess.

"_Do you mind_?"

"Yes. Yes, I do. I'm paying the rent for our... living quarters, and you're supposed to be helping me. You could at least quit being so shadowy."

"You wouldn't understand this anyway."

Some of the haughtiness is definitely false. It's not impossible to see through. He's probably an okay guy once he ditches the whole evil-villain-taking-over-the-world attitude. "How do you know? I need to know what's happening if you expect me to help you with this."

"I'll just build a time machine and go back to my own time."

"But you have steady funding here. If you don't want to tell me, though, I won't get money for you or run your errands. You can buy your terrabutts yourself."

Doctor Impossible snorts and sort of shakes his head. "Terrabutts. Interesting."

I totally knew there's nothing you can run a computer with called a terrabutt. Or is there? Maybe I've just made an incredible breakthrough in understanding the magical language of computers. 'Interesting' was an ambiguous comment. "Alright, cool. Let me see." I lean over his shoulder as witness to a hideous object. It's red and gold. It has _fins_. "What in God's name is _that_?"

He looks perturbed. "It's an Impossiblaster. New and updated."

"Oh. Interesting. Well. I'll just go back to what I was doing, then." Which was sitting on a beat up old couch. Christ, I hope this pans out well. "Impossiblaster"? Really? That's just plain tacky. And the _fins_.

"What?"

"What do you mean, what?"

"I mean, what's the matter with you? Just not curious anymore?" He scoffs.

"Nope, not really. I hope you have a pretty good plan in store."

"I've been thinking."

"Me too."

"I wasn't aware a petty thief had to come up with anything beforehand."

I let the insult bounce off like a bullet. Eventually he'll wear down. I've been trying to convince myself. I want him to like me, badly, and it surprises me how much. "It's not beforehand I'm concerned about. I have that as planned as it's going to get."

"Thought so."

I clench my jaw. "I'm going to bathe in a pool of money."

"Uh-huh. Sounds nice."

"Naked."

"Great."

"_Without clothes on."_

This time I don't even get a reply. Apparently I have to appear out of nowhere and start glowing green to catch him off guard.

"It's going to be an Olympic sized pool."

"Wonderful. Is _that _your master plan?"

"Stage _one_," I retort. I was going to go rob another bank tonight, but it's getting late, and I sure am tired. Guess the Doctor will have to wait for his funds until tomorrow. Shame he'll be working all night.

I wake up the next morning feeling more rested than angry. It's tough to sleep with my mask on, but I'm not up to taking it off just yet. I find Doctor Impossible right where I left him, maybe with a couple more Chinese takeout boxes than before. I guess he's used to pulling all-nighters, but I can see the toll it's taking.

I slip over to his seat, one of the couch cushions he placed on the floor in front of the computer. I can tell he's not terribly alert at the moment. His fingers work slowly, clumsily. "Go to sleep." I manage to incite another jump. "And take off that stupid helmet. You need to air out or something."

"Quiet, maggot."

"Don't you 'quiet, maggot' me. Get some sleep. And a shower. I won't even leave you alone here."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Then I'll go. You've been awake for days, living on Chinese food. You can't stay up forever."

Finally, Doctor Impossible caves in. He gives me an indignant grunt and places the gaudy mechanism he was working on in front of himself, then crosses the storage room to the queen size mattress I'd bought for both of us to sleep on. I would've bought a king, but it probably wouldn't have fit. There's an old couch, a thrift store table, several trash bags, and the Doctor's makeshift workshop in here already, and they don't make storage facilities any bigger than this. They're not exactly made to be lived in.

I pass time by very deliberately picking up Chinese takeout boxes and stuffing them into yet another trash bag. They're beginning to pile up, but I've done my best to take them out regularly. It doesn't take long before Doctor Impossible is sound asleep and snoring softly. He doesn't look quite so threatening asleep, not that he scared me much in the first place. His costume is stained with sweat and grease and he smells like chemicals and about how you'd think someone would smell without a shower or a change of clothes for a week or so.

I carefully poke his hand. It's the first time I've actually touched his skin, and I'm surprised to find that it's rather cold and a little hard. My body temperature is above your average human's, and I'm pretty sure Doctor Impossible's is below. Satisfied that he won't wake under my touch, I gently lift his helmet off. Sleeping in a mask sucks, and the helmet must be even worse. His hair is greased down into a perfect dome around his head. Still completely black, even though he's in his late forties. I'll have to pester him to wash the costume later. The smell is beginning to get to me. I leave his helmet next to the mattress and am careful not to disturb anything else on my way out, hauling five new trash bags over my back.

After I slap a sticker on the convenience store's door and make off with a hefty sack of dollars, I change into my street clothes in a public bathroom stall and head to the local community center, where my member card says I'm Lola Reeves. That's not my real name, of course. I take a long shower, washing off the filth of the storage unit and of crime. I revel in being a villain – but it's like bathing in Kool-Aid. Fun for a while, but eventually you get sticky and you reek of it. You have to wash it off. I guess scrubbing myself raw makes me feel like a better person. After I'm squeaky clean, I stick some of the money from my bag (now located in an inconspicuous tote) in a wallet and walk to the grocery store.

I get a couple of looks, but it's not what you think. I just wear a burkha with my street clothes. I'm not a Muslim, but the whole modesty thing helps hide your identity in a less suspicious way than the "hat and sunglasses indoors" approach.

My first stop is the produce section. I stock up on salad kits and fruits and veggies that can be eaten raw. Next, I grab a cooler from that obligatory aisle with the outdoor cooking stuff in it. Finally, lean meat, fish, and a couple of good steaks. Raw vegetables are fine, but the meat will have to be cooked. Luckily, I can manage to cook a steak using good, old fashioned psychic energy. I figure Doctor Impossible will rig something up if he wants meat while I'm out.

After a few hours, I'm back at the hideout, and, unsurprisingly, my partner's still out like a light. The ice for the cooler is noisy, and I try to be quiet with it, but it looks like it doesn't matter much. The snoring from the bed continues unimpeded. After I get all the ice into the cooler where it's supposed to be, I put the meats in, safe in their Styrofoam containers, then the fruits and veggies. We would be eating healthier from now on.

I find the most private corner of the room I can to change back into my costume. Doctor Impossible's isn't the only one that needs washed. I hesitate while putting my mask on, and decide it's a little hypocritical if I'm going to complain about him always wearing his. So I leave it off. My costume's silver hair is a wig attached to the mask that goes over my eyes. It's a good disguise, and my natural brown doesn't exactly go with the black and green. You don't wear brown with black, as they say.

What to do until Doctor Impossible awakens? Well, I have to cook those steaks. His is a reward for doing what I tell him to for once. But the steaks can wait. Instead, I examine my face in the reflective screen of the supercomputer. Probably not what Doc intended it for, but it's there and it's gaudily reflective. Like everything else.

I guess I'm sort of pretty, in a girl-next-door kind of way. Mostly plain. My lips are a little too big, my eyes too narrow. My nose is just a nose. My forehead has started to break out from wearing the mask almost nonstop. I try to push my hair in front to cover it, but that just looks strange. Maybe I should put my mask back on? Seems a bit of an overreaction. The mask will only make it worse. But it's still a solution that's hard to resist.

There's the whole stereotype to live up to, you know? Seems like most supervillainesses are dominatrices. Frankly, I'm not all that interested in sex at all. I'm not a lesbian. Lordy, no. But at the same time, part of me wants to really overdo the whole succubus thing that seems to come with deciding to be a female supervillain. Everyone expects you to look and act like a sex idol. It's plainly and simply not me, but maybe I'd be more threatening if that's how I was. Sure, the bodysuit is pretty tight, but it's for practical purposes more than anything else. I can't have police and heroes grabbing onto flowing bits. The heels, I'll admit, are for looking good, but I have an extra pair of shoes with rubber grips, magnets inside, and separated toes. Great for climbing in.

It isn't long that I'm idle. Soon I hear a stirring from Doctor Impossible's side of the room. Apparently the guy doesn't sleep long. Nightmares, maybe? I know if I were him, I'd be asleep for at least a day, but hey, the steaks aren't going to keep that long.

"Good morning, sunshine." I'm trying to be pleasant here.

"Where's my helmet?" He's prodding at his head a little nervously.

"Right beside you. Relax, I didn't probe your brain or anything like that. I just figured it would be uncomfortable to sleep in."

He gives me a glare, then notices I'm not wearing my headpiece either. It takes him a second to recover, but he reaches for his helmet and puts it back on. Asshole. I'm certain he realized what I was going for; you can't be that intelligent without being perceptive. I try to ignore the gesture. "Hungry?"

"Did you order more food?"

"I _bought _more food. You can't live on a diet of grease and MSG."

I take the steaks out of their plastic wrap and hold each one in the palm of one hand. My stomach growls and I realize I haven't eaten today. Or last night. I'm one to talk about a healthy diet. Pretty soon the reek of sweat and old food is almost washed from the room by the smell of cooked meat.

I hand Doctor Impossible his and hold mine in both hands, tearing out bites like an animal. I guess I forgot about cutlery.

"Why'd you buy steaks?" he asks, chewing with a very slight upturn at the corner of his lip that I think might just be a smile.

"I appreciated your taking my advice," I answer. "Nice to know you respect me, at least a little."

"I don't." Ass. Stubborn ass. "I just wanted you to stop bothering me so I could work."

I shrug. It's getting harder to roll with the punches, figuratively speaking. I'm starting to think things might be easier if Doctor Impossible was actually trying to hit me. Then at least I'd have some sort of outlet.

That gives me an idea.

Superheroes are not hard to come by. They are literally _everywhere_. All I have to do is find one to pick a fight with. Get my name out there, let people know that in this reality as well as the last, Synergy is a force to be reckoned with.

I stop at the first sign of a hero's intervention. Down a dark alley, I hear a voice that doesn't sound quite sure of itself: "Stop, fiend! Unhand this woman's belongings!"

God, it was a scene straight out of a TV show. A little old lady, her purse stolen by a crook. She looks a bit scuffed up, and I start to feel bad. I don't like for people to get hurt, but you should know by now I have zero problem with stealing stuff.

I run at the caped crusader full speed and launch myself into a tackle aimed at his overly muscled back. This guy is pure brute strength. He has a gaudy costume of blue, red, and silver, like a damn Nascar. Awful. "I'll have to ask you to unhand that fiend, sir," I mutter as I creep up his back. He seems stunned. Obviously not used to anyone fighting back, but you simply don't pick on unpowered criminals when you're a metahuman unless they're really dangerous. Let the police handle the John Does. Sometimes the line gets a little blurry, but this thief is definitely just a man.

The hero makes a rash attempt to throw me off, but I'm stuck on like a tick. My gloves have grippy fingertips that are most suited for latching onto two things: concrete wall and spandex. I remove a hand, readying a punch. He dodges. Quicker than I thought. It's unnerving when the titan-sized heroes move that quick. But not really a problem.

My hands and feet grow hotter against his back. The cape is starting to catch flame. By now the lady and the thief are long gone, unfortunately. I was hoping for more witnesses. A scream as I singe Nascar Man's skin. He's not big enough in the realm of heroes to buy a good costume, that's for sure. My smart fabric deflects heat wonderfully, but it came at a price. A price this hero either couldn't afford or didn't think was necessary to pay.

Then, a bullet bounces off the fabric at my shoulder. It feels like getting hit with an Airsoft pellet. And then it explodes in my face. Suddenly, I feel warm liquid at my temple and forehead. I know whose these are. "Civilian!" I cry, leaping off the Redneck Wonder's back, and landing with a perfect flourish on all three and a half inches of my spike heels. "We meet again!"

The Civilian is tall for a man, but not tall for a metahuman. He only has one power that I know of: flight. The rest is just sharp shooting skills. He doesn't wear much of a costume; I think it goes with his whole look. He's got a hoodie on, hood up, and a bandanna over his face. The hoodie has the League's logo on the chest.

"I don't know who you are," he states. "But I'll take you out anyway!" I remember I'm not a native. Oops. Things were looking almost normal.

"Perhaps _this _will remind you!" I hastily remove a sticker from my pouch and slap it onto the small-time hero's rear.

"So it's you who's been behind all the bank robberies as of late. What are you taking the money for?"

"A businesswoman never reveals her strategy!" I don't actually know whether or not businesspeople reveal their strategies. But it makes for dramatic banter.

"Alright. Whatever. You're still under arrest for the robberies, and now battery, too. League, assemble!" Sometimes he acted as the makeshift leader. I guess this is one of those times. I'd hoped he was alone, and since he's not, I'm in trouble.

Looks like he brought almost the whole team. Pinstripe Chrome is there on his left, in a three-piece suit I think he wears out of insecurity. He's a skinny kid. BlindSide stands to the Civilian's right, picking up my color signature, no doubt. But something on her face says she's surprised. I couldn't tell you why. On Pinstripe's left is a girl I don't recognize, but who looks uncannily familiar. Time to stop staring and make a break for it.

They chase me down a few alleys, but I doubt they're used to even B movie villains around here. Oh, how I'd love to sic Doctor Impossible on them. But the thought of him makes me angry, and I remember why I'm here. I dive behind a dumpster and begin melting the plastic back, hoping the green glow doesn't give me away. I hear them coming, and I start lobbing chunks of molten plastic.

This stuff is hot enough to cause permanent burn scars, but something stops it. I peek out to see what, and the girl I couldn't recognize has the plastic suspended in an amoebic mass over their heads, caught in a smoky blue sphere.

This is where things start to get really freaky. I'd know that specific brand of energy anywhere. It's mine.


	3. Useless Device

I'm about to try and lose them again, but this could be interesting. I crawl on top of the dumpster, wait for the Civilian to stop shooting at me, then stand, proud and arrogant. "You there, in the blue and white. What do you call yourself?"

"Rio." I hate her voice. No one likes the sound of their voice recorded, and this is about the same thing.

I snort. "Rio? Stupid name." It's totally not a stupid name. I even get the reference, but I guess I would.

"Yeah? What's yours?"

"Synergy. The Million Dollar Woman. I don't suppose you know who I am."

"Not at all." Faker. She looks worried under that mask. She's beginning to see the resemblance. "You must be a small-timer, which would explain why you're beating up on Racing Stripes."

Racing Stripes? Lord, I thought of better names for him while my fingers burnt into his back.

"A small-timer here," I reply, "but not where I came from. Rio, you and I have more in common than you might be comfortable with. Watch out." I turn my attention to the rest of the team. "Remember the name! Remember Synergy, because this isn't the last time you'll hear from me!"

Bloody and thrashed, but still a winner, I make my escape. It doesn't take long to lose them. They haven't got the same finesse as they do in my dimension. I just leap through the alleys and boarded up windows of a few abandoned buildings, and I'm on the home stretch. I race back to the storage facility, trying to think of better living accommodations on the way. I'm about sick of sharing one small room with my reluctant partner in crime. His ego's big enough to fill up two rooms, at least.

I lift up the garage door-styled front of the storage unit, prance in, and slam it back shut. "Hit your head on a safe door or something?" Doctor Impossible asks, eying my injury.

"Shut up. I don't even open safes. I _melt _them."

He _hmph_s. "Alright. What happened?"

I lean against the side of the supercomputer, ignore the glare I get for it, and say in what I hope is a nonchalant tone: "Oh, I had a run in with some heroes. Nothing too bad."

"Your _head _is _bleeding_."

"Oh, really?" I touch the blood and cringe. "I guess it is. I hadn't noticed."

"Uh-huh." He doesn't sound too convinced.

I wish I could do something, _anything_, to make him like me. To make him proud of me. The confrontation with Rio told me that this man was more influential to me than I'd previously thought. If Rio is what I would be without him, then I owe him an awful lot. Maybe that's it.

"I met someone today."

Doctor Impossible nods. I take it as a sign to keep going.

"Well, actually, I met myself." That earns me a look. Not an angry one. Maybe mildly interested. "I learned that in a world where you don't exist, I'd still be a hero. I'd be _Rio_. Apparently."

Finally, he looks up. "Was that your name before you changed sides?"

"No. And I don't know whether this me has always been Rio, or whether she was also... Ectoplasma. Before."

He laughs, but it's not mean-spirited. "Nice name."

"Were you ever anything else?"

He looks off into somewhere I can't see for a couple of seconds. "No. Always Doctor Impossible."

"It's a good name."

He smiles. Really smiles. It makes my heart skip a beat. "Thank you." And then he goes back to his work.

I'm left to recover on my own. It's like... imagine you've looked up to someone, I don't know, an actor, a singer, a _hero_, all your life. Imagine you get the chance to meet that person. And then they _smile _at you, genuinely and truly, and you know it's not in an effort to keep up a good image or be sociable (definitely not). It's just perfect. I fish a cucumber out of the cooler and munch on it thoughtfully.

"You know," I say after a few minutes, "I've been thinking. We need somewhere else to stay."

"Oh?" It's not a positive or negative comment. Just ambiguous. Doctor Impossible speaks in two tones: Enigmatic and Condescending Ass. Luckily the one he's using now is the lesser of two evils.

"Would you be alright with moving your... stuff... to an apartment or a house?"

He shrugs. It's an awkward motion with the breastplate on. "As long as you find something out of the way. I don't want to draw attention."

I nod. "Done. I'm going to the library to use the Internet there."

"With a bleeding head wound?" He chuckles to himself.

This time I really did forget about it. Pain doesn't last too long on me. "What do you want me to do about it, go to the hospital?"

"No, just clean your face off or something. Here." He tosses a rag over his shoulder. It's stained black with something I'd probably rather not touch even if I knew what it was.

"Oh. Thanks." I decide it's probably a better idea to ruin a shirt and buy a new one later, so I grab an article of my civilian garb. I carefully remove my mask, and it hurts. The blood's dried onto it. I dip the shirt in the slightly melted ice of the cooler, then wipe my face off. "Ow." Cold. But somehow still burning. I don't tolerate pain very well. You wouldn't know it from the high heels, but it's true.

This time the burkha really comes in handy. I'd get a lot more looks without it. I really should invest in some first aid. The trip to the library doesn't take long; a nice house for rental was easy to find because money's not really an issue. So I visit a Walgreens and buy some gauze bandages and medical tape. Satisfied, I start to make my way back to my makeshift home when a poster catches my eye.

Happy people in swimsuits lounge on towels or play volleyball or laze in the water on highlighter-toned, donut-shaped floats. The beach. White sand, cloudless sky, turquoise water. I grew up in the east coast, so trips weren't exactly few and far between. It's been years. And someone's had his panties in a knot for a while. Specifically, the same panties he was wearing a week ago. Cringe.

I grab a brochure and I'm back in action. This is it. We can rent a car, rent a trailer for the stuff, move, wash our clothes, have our own shower, go on a field trip, commit felonies, and be happy while doing it.

Back at the storage unit, I drop two things in Doctor Impossible's lap: the brochure and the printout of the house I rented. Six months. He looks at the house information first. "Four bedroom, three bath? I think you misunderstood me. A _mansion _is by no means out of the way."

"It's secluded."

That seems to sate him at least a little. "Why do we need this much space?"

"Look at this place and tell me we don't need at least that much space." The supercomputer looks about finished to my ignorant eyes, and there are bits of shrapnel, computer boards, and half-made robots scattered around. One of them is lounging on the couch where I used to sit. At least the Doctor is taking this plan seriously.

"Fine. What's this?" He picks up the beach brochure between thumb and index finger, as if it's a bug, or a delicate piece of machinery.

"Look at it."  
"I am. I don't understand."

"Pretty nice rates. Hotel stays, discounts at local eateries..."

"No."

"Why not?" My tone is almost a whine.

"Doctor Impossible does not take beach vacations."

"Jonathan might."  
"Where did you learn that name from?"

_That _name. It's not even _his _name. I shrug. Can't say I don't have the same problem with Libby. "I did my research on most everything I needed to know. Minus the act of time traveling."

"What else do you know about me?" His eyelid is twitching a little. Looks like I hit a nerve.

"Not much, to be perfectly honest. Probably about the same as anyone else from your time. List of arrests. Notable inventions. That kind of stuff. Maybe a few closet skeletons here and there, but really, that's about it. You can look yourself up if you want to."

Doctor Impossible doesn't seem satisfied by this at all. "I will not go on _vacation_"(it's quite detestable, apparently) "and you will not utter that name again."

"Please? I won't talk at all if it makes you happier." I'm getting seriously desperate now, but that's a promise I'd probably end up breaking.

"I'm not happy anyway. There's not going to be an improvement." His jaw is set tight.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."

"I'm not offended. I'm..." It takes him a minute. "Betrayed, I suppose."


	4. You Will be the Death of Me

Damn. I'm an idiot. I'm such an idiot. He was right all along. I might as well change my name to Failure Girl. Not that I'm giving up on my scheme. "Alright. Well, we're scheduled to go take a look at the house tomorrow afternoon, so you should marinate in some bleach for a while or something. Whatever gets the scent off."

The head wound wasn't too serious, so it healed pretty quickly and I don't even need the bandages. It was just messy, is all. Today I walk to the car rental in a sunhat and sunglasses instead of my burkha. It's getting hot, and accordingly, the car I chose is silver. White looks cheap. It's an Accord, a newer model, but not _too _new. Don't want to draw too much attention. The windows are only slightly tinted because black windows look suspicious to me. The best way to hide is in plain sight.

When I pull the car up in front of the storage facility, I find my partner waiting there, looking unnerved, but clean. He wears a nice button down, a pair of slacks, and sensible shoes. His goatee is meticulously trimmed. He cleans up well, when he makes the effort.

Doctor Impossible opens the passenger side door and scowls at me. "Really? A sedan? You couldn't have gotten something... I don't know. A truck, maybe?"

"Trucks only get fifty or sixty miles to a gallon."

"What?"

"Have you not noticed the price of gas? I'm not paying ten dollars a gallon for crappy mileage."

"How much does this get?"

"About a hundred and thirty."

He whistles. "Damn."

"We've been driving for a while."

"You said we needed something out of the way."

"I didn't mean eighty miles out of the way."

"Well, that's your fault for not being specific." I take an exit that has a few names of beaches on it. Suddenly, Doctor Impossible stiffens.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Oh, did I not mention I also rented a room on the beach for a few days? Have to get our money's worth."

"If you weren't so useful, I'd kill you."

"Nice to know there's a reason not to throttle me now."

"The reason is starting to seem less important. Don't give me ideas."

"You're not as threatening as you think, sir." The exit ramp ends and we're on a stretch of road that runs directly parallel to the water's edge. Between us and the ocean, a sandy beach sprawls out as far as I can see, lined with fancy hotels, condos, restaurants, and shops. It's starting to feel like home. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

All I get is a growl. Doctor Impossible is about to sublimate in his seat. "Will you relax? We're here to have fun, and you can either make this difficult and mope the whole time, or you can try to enjoy yourself. If you haven't noticed, this is me being friendly."

"Taking me somewhere I specifically said I didn't want to go is friendly?"

"It is if it's for your own good."

He makes an indignant noise and crosses his arms. I swear, he's pouting. It would be funny if he couldn't snap me in two and wasn't probably weighing the pros and cons of doing it.

He somehow manages to not uncross his arms while he gets out of the car once we arrive at the building I've booked us a stay in. It's tan with raw wood accents and floor-to-ceiling length windows along the side that faces the beach. The curtains can be drawn, of course, but where's the fun in that? We enter the main lobby, and my partner's sour look does not dissipate.

"Good evening," the clerk greets us. "How can I help you?"

"We have a reservation here," I reply, searching in my purse for my wallet. I hand him a fake ID.

"Martin?"

"That's us." He hands me a pair of keys to the room and directs me to the elevator. Top floor, penthouse suite.

"May I ask what the occasion is?"

"Excuse me?"

"We don't often get customers willing to pay for that particular room. I'm just curious."

"Oh..." I hadn't thought about a back story. Time to improvise! "It's, um, we're on honeymoon."

"Well, congratulations! On behalf of Seaside Resort Condominiums, I hope you have a wonderful stay."

"Thank you."

On the elevator up to the top floor, Doctor Impossible remarks, "Honeymoon. Interesting choice."

"I had to think of something quickly that didn't sound suspicious."

"Hm. Martin's not your real last name, is it?"

"_No_. I'm not that stupid. The ID has my real first name on it, though, if you're curious." I hand him the slip of laminated cardstock. It's a top-of-the-line fake, and I paid good money for it, like everything else on this trip. I've been more liberal in the three weeks since Doctor Impossible got here than in the entire eight years I'd been thieving beforehand.

"Elizabeth."  
"Libby to friends. Always hated it."

I think I can almost see a smile play across his lips. The mood seems to be brightening around here.

"How much did you pay for this room, Libby?"

"You could refrain from calling me that."  
"I'm exacting my revenge. That's what I'm good at. Answer the question."

"Um. Close to seven hundred."

_Jonathan _squints at me. "You're going to run us into the ground." He huffs. "This had better be a good room, Libby."

"It will be. Stop that."

"We're married. You said so yourself. Why can't your husband call you by your name?"

"That's not really necessary, either." I can't help but smile. It's good to see him feeling at least a little better, even if he has to torment me to do it.

Once we're in the room, I rifle through my purse for a little while until I find what I'm looking for. I throw a pair of trunks at the lounging Doctor Impossible. He's probably glad to be able to spread out those lanky limbs of his. He peels them off his face and takes a look. Red with yellow hibiscus flowers. "I hope you're not counting on me swimming."

"I am."

"It's not going to happen."  
"Why? Are you insecure? If that's the case I guess you can chicken out and leave the water to the real men."

He frowns at me, but something about it is different. It doesn't really reach his eyes. He isn't angry. "Fine. Not much sense in putting up a fight. I just don't like being wet, is all."

I almost do a victory leap, but I figure that's a little too much. Finally! It took him long enough to take me halfway seriously. "Good. If that's how you feel, you won't object to dressing well tonight. We're going somewhere nice for dinner." That earns me a groan. I was wondering when he'd revert back. "Look, all you have to do is live the high life for these few days, and if you like it, maybe you'll consider a lifestyle change or two. And if you don't, you can go right back to living on Chinese takeout and tinkering with your machines all day. But if you're going to rule the world, I figure you ought to know how to live like a leader."

"Why are you spending so much money on me?"

I'd been asking myself that question, too. I was hoping it wouldn't come up. I'm having a serious identity crisis. Once, I wanted money because I wanted money. I wanted to sleep in it, bathe in it, live and breathe and eat and drink it. Now I want to _use _that money. Don't get me wrong, I still don't care for the whole ruling the world thing. I'm not competing with Doctor Impossible. No, this money is _for_ him. If he achieves his goal, I'll be happy. There'll always be more money. But there will be only one Doctor Impossible, only one person to come up with his schemes and put those insane plans into action. Only one person who will ever be my personal idol. Only one person who'll be the closest thing I've had to a friend in years.

I want this money to be his before it's mine. I want him to succeed in ways I never will. He's smarter and more experienced. But beyond logical reasoning, there's a certain amount of irrational devotion. I guess it comes with being the breadwinner or something. You bring home the bacon, and you've got to have someone to cook it. Specifically, to cook it into lasers and robots and bombs that could turn a planet into a giant nuclear reaction.

It's irrational, alright. I'm probably the only person you'll find who wants the Smartest Man in the World to become the Smartest Dictator in the World. And trust me, it's not for the perks that come from being his ally, assuming there are any. There probably aren't.

Anyway, there's your summary of my predicament. At the end of it all, the question stops being "Why am I spending so much money on him?" and starts being, "What is it about him that makes me want to?"

I realize Doctor Impossible is still waiting for an answer.

"I don't know." I massage my temple. This is starting to give me a headache. "Let's talk about something else."

"Hmm."  
"What?"

"Nothing. Just you."

"What _about _me?" Crap. My cheeks are starting to get hot. My hair isn't quite long enough to cover that.

"You're very entertaining. There's something about you that piques my interest. I hadn't noticed before."

Something about me that _piques his interest_? Weird choice of language, to say the least. But weird is probably the norm for someone with an IQ you could split in half and still get two geniuses out of. I have no idea what goes on in his head. I'm just glad I don't bore him. "I'll be right back. I need to go get the suitcase out of the car."

"There's a _suitcase_? Jesus, how did I let this much planning slip by me?"

"Maybe it was so obvious you didn't notice."

"Possible, I suppose."

I'm a little perturbed he doesn't offer to help me get the suitcase, but he didn't ask for it anyway, and it's not like I'm not strong enough to get it myself. I haul it up the stairs with no problem. I hate riding elevators by myself. Something about it kind of freaks me out. Everyone has their phobias.

Once I'm back in the room, I unzip the top zipper to reveal neat rolls of clothing, one outfit each, underwear included. It saves space; my mom taught me that. "Well," I say, catching the Doctor's attention, "pick your outfit."

He blinks at me. "How did you get my clothing size?"

"I took measurements of your costume the last time I went to the laundromat."

I earn a head shake. "You're crazy."  
"I wanted to be prepared."

I select my attire for the night and lock myself in the next room. It's an elaborate bedroom with a massive bed, canopy and all, in brass, white, and periwinkle. It goes nicely with the cream carpet. Very beachy color scheme. Somewhere in the back of my mind I wonder if I'll end up in here. Would _we _end up in here? Something about the thought makes me shiver, and I promise you, it isn't in pleasure. No, I'll take the couch if I have to. I'm sure there's another bed around here somewhere, though.

I decide to take a shower before I get dressed. The master bathroom is the one with the jacuzzi, unsurprisingly, but it also has a regular old shower. No bathtub or anything, not that I needed one. I use the provided shampoo, conditioner, and soap. Being clean makes me feel considerably better, no matter how I feel before. Especially now, showers have been few and far between, and I'm happy to say goodbye to that.

My dress is the color of the sky on a cloudy day. It's sleeveless and sleek around the bodice, but the skirt has a little volume. I've never been one for makeup, so I just throw on the pair of silver pumps I've brought and comb out my hair (I'd forgotten a comb, but they've supplied one for me in the master bathroom), and I'm ready to go. I don't have anything to carry besides the room key and a few bills, and I can hopefully slip those into my bra if I'm discreet about it.

One glance at my partner tells me we're ready for a night on the town. Doctor Impossible looks excellent in a suit I picked out for him. It's a white button-down with a starched collar over black slacks, but the vest is what makes it. Double-breasted, brass buttons, and a paisley of gold, black, and crimson. The tie is blood red. It's reminiscent of the genteel era of the golden-age hero. All he needs is a top hat and monocle, but I think that's a little over the top. Today he conquers high-end menswear, tomorrow, the world.

"Um. Thanks. I, uh. Well, it's definitely _me_."

"No problem," I say nonchalantly.

"Where do you find clothes like this?"

I shrug. "You know. Malls, department stores. The whole style isn't too uncommon nowadays."

"I'll keep that in mind." _Damn_, that red makes his eyes pop. It's almost a perfect contrast to the light blue. He notices me looking and sort of smirks. I avert my gaze.

"So. Ready to go?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

The elevator ride is more awkward this time since we're both silent. Or maybe less awkward. I can't decide if I like Doctor Impossible talking when he just antagonizes me, or if I like him silent better. There are a lot of people in the lobby, and I can tell he's on edge. Not nervous, necessarily, but his guard is up.

"Take my hand, Synergy."

"What?"

"I said, _take my goddamn hand_."

I politely inform my captor that he is paranoid with a capital P, but I do what he says. Once we're out in the parking lot, he releases his death grip on my palm. His hands are so clammy; it's weird. Maybe it's because my skin is abnormally hot. But I've been over this before, and I'll feel what I'll feel. I cradle my hand and look at him irately. "Why was that necessary?"

"You're the one who said we're married. We've got an image to keep up."

"You, sir, are ridiculous."

He just shrugs enigmatically. "You said it. Don't blame me."

"Just get in the car."

"As you wish, madam."

We ride in silence and a valet takes our car at the restaurant I've made our reservations at. It's beautiful. I try to ignore the connotations of the mood lighting that I can't help but think about and enjoy myself anyway. The food is delicious. It's perfect. Everything is. Doctor Impossible even occasionally interrupts his silence to make small talk. Otherwise, he gives me the blank stare of a housecat, and there's even the slow blink. Strange. I can't help but think I'm being examined or something, but I humor him when he speaks to me and I can tell he's listening.

"So, Synergy. Where'd you grow up?" He hasn't called me by my real name again, which I guess I can be glad about.

"Um. Georgia. I lived in Georgia until I moved up to New York to join the League."

"What league?"

"Oh. The League of Righteous Fists."

"Good lord."

"What?" I hand the waiter a wad of bills that I'm trying not to cry over stuffed inside one of those little black wallets they've got at restaurants.

"Is _that _what replaced the Champions?"

"Oh, not hardly. At least in my world, the Champions disbanded pretty soon after they caught you for the last time. Or, the _New _Champions, I guess. There seemed to be some stress among the newer members." One of whom was Lily. I'd prefer not to go too deeply into it and I'm glad when he doesn't ask. "But Blackwolf and Damsel got back together, at least for a little while. Never quite followed it after that. Anyway, after the Champions came the Warriors of the Sun; they were mostly from out of the solar system, then the Iron Clash. I think that one was headed by one of the former members of the New Champions. Fatality, or something? I don't know. _Then _the League."

"Wow."

"Yeah, things had been a little shaky, but the Iron Clash is still out there, just not as prominent as the League. They've kept themselves together pretty well. Alright group of people."

After that he went back to finishing his dessert, but it was a different story when we returned to the condo.

"Tell me more about the League."

"You could ask nicely," I mutter, throwing off my heels. They're not quite hurting, but the dress and heel combo is becoming pretty cumbersome.  
"I could, but I won't because you should've briefed me on the heroes sooner."

I hold up my hands. "Alright, you've got me there." I study him for a second while he unbuttons his vest, trying to think of where to start. "Well, the leader for the most part calls himself the Civilian. He can fly and he's a good marksman, but I don't think he has anything else going for him."

Doctor Impossible stares at me blankly, as if he's copying notes from somewhere. Except there's no paper or pencil. He nods at me. "And?"

"Hmm, let's see. The Civilian's right-hand man is Pinstripe Chrome. He's young. I totally wasn't expecting that fourteenth birthday party, but I wasn't the only one." I chuckle. Life in the League wasn't all bad; it just wasn't my cup of tea.

"How old is he now?"

"God, I don't know. Got to be... twenty-four? Twenty-five? I guess he's not too much younger than me, but..."  
"Wait, how old are you?"

I cock an eyebrow. "Twenty-six."

"_Fuck. _I thought you were... a little older."

"Oh. Thanks?"

"Don't worry about it, just keep going." He slumps and runs his hands up into his hair like something's wrong, but I don't ask.  
"Sure. Uh... where was I? Pinstripe. He calls himself The Indestructible Man for a reason. I don't know of any way to kill or even permanently hurt him. He shoots people, too, and he's got a small army's worth of guns on him at any time. Guess safety doesn't matter when you heal up in a matter of minutes." I'm pacing back and forth now, trying to recall everything I know about the League. "BlindSide is their tracker. She's blind, like the name implies, but she's a powerful psychic. She reads auras and mental presence around certain places or objects. If someone's been around something for a while, she'll know. She has her limits, of course. She can't track a person she doesn't know, and she has a range, but she's very, _very_ good.

" She isn't much of a fighter, which is why they'd usually send one of the other members with her. Claymore was the best choice, I think because he's quiet and nothing but brute strength. Big guy in a suit of armor, two giant swords, not much else to say about him. He was really mysterious. Only showed up when he felt like it, and no one really knew anything about him, from what I gathered, other than he wanted to help.

"If Claymore wasn't around, there were Feral and Beastmaster. I think they're sort of an item. Feral named herself in honor of the Feral of your time. They were from the same breeding project, as far as I know. She looks like a walking cheetah. Beastmaster was nice to me. He has a good personality."

"And he does...?"

"Be patient; I was getting to it. He's a shapeshifter. Any sort of currently living animal you can think of, he can take the form of. He was an excellent spy and a force to be reckoned with in battle, too."

"That's it?"

"There weren't a whole lot of them that stayed in the building and fought together on a casual basis. Those were the regular members, last I checked. Oh, yeah. And there's Rio. I figure she's a regular too since it looked like she was just on patrol with them."

"Rio. Yes, that could be interesting."

I shrug. Kind of gives me the shivers, but I figure if I see her again I'll assume my natural villain ambiance. "I don't know much about her personality-wise, but I know exactly what she can do, so I guess that's valuable as well."

Doctor Impossible crosses his arms and leans back into the armchair he'd sprawled out in. "Hell of a lot more valuable than 'she has a nice personality'."

I scowl. "Look, I was their ally for a while. How they treated me was pretty important. Most of them weren't terribly nice. If they were better to me than you are, I'd have gone back."

He strokes his goatee thoughtfully. I don't think I've ever seen him do that before, but in the fancy clothes, it's almost comical. "That's ironic, isn't it?"

"What?"

"They're heroes, but according to you they're worse company than a supervillain."

I shrug. "I guess so. I don't think my personality clashed with theirs quite right. Pinstripe, especially. We're sort of similar, and things get ugly when you get too much stubborn asshole-slash-bitch comic relief in one place, you know?" Silence. I almost want to nudge his arm: "Eh? Eh?" But I don't. "Alright. I guess you don't know."

"Can't say I've had the experience."

"Well, that's okay. Not the best experience in the world, anyway. Rio must be pretty different from me personality-wise, because I don't know how else she'd put up with them."

Doctor Impossible smiles at me. I wish I could say I've gotten used to it by now, but it's still a treat. "It couldn't have been that bad. They're heroes. What'd they do to you?"

"Pinstripe was an asshole."

"You've been over that part."

"He was the worst. But it always seemed pretty tense. I guess it was like they never really welcomed me. Like I wasn't supposed to be there or something. No one talked to me unless they had to, and no one seemed to want to be my friend all that bad, just my ally, and then maybe not even that. It made me bitter, in a way. And lonely. I think that was what eventually drove me out."

He's giving me that cat stare again. I'm under scrutiny. "What about me?"

"What _about _you?"

"Do I make a better ally?"

"You make a better _friend_."


	5. Mon Cœur S'ouvre à Ta Voix

It's late at night, but after a little prodding, I manage to convince my stand-in husband to come swimming with me. The water is a little chilly, and yet there's no breeze to be found in the hot air.

"Come on," I beckon, waving my fingers at him. "It's a beautiful night."

"I don't like this. Ugh. I think I cut my foot."

"Quit whining. The sand's like flour."

"And you said the water was cold?"

"Only a little."

"You got me into the trunks and you didn't even have to threaten my life. Aren't you happy?"

"Not quite." I'm surprised when a strangely feminine giggle elicits from my lips. The swimsuit was undoubtedly a struggle, but I don't care to go into it. I've already shown you through the closest thing I can come to firsthand how stubborn he is. "I'll drag you into the water if I have to; the salt'll do you some good."

I splash out of the knee-length waves back up into the white sand. "Last chance to come willingly. Make your choice."

"No."

"I see how it is." Without further warning, I clasp his hands in both of mine, and he digs his heels into the sand, but he hasn't got much leverage. A few yanks bring us up to a couple of feet from the ocean.

"Damn it, Syn, stop trying to melt my hands off. I'm going." Aha. So I'm not the only one who feels the difference in temperature.

"Promise?"

That earns me a smile, even if his eyes still look irate. "I haven't broken one yet, have I?"

I let him go and he walks beside me to the water's edge. Suddenly I feel awkwardly short.

"I seem to remember someone saying he didn't keep promises on the grounds of _Jesus Christ, I'm a supervillain_."

He rolls his eyes at me. His very, very blue eyes, which are all I can concentrate on whether or not he's half naked. "I make exceptions."

"Good to know." I start to walk into the water, and Doctor Impossible follows, gritting his teeth.

I manage to get him up to his stomach in the ocean, which I guess is an accomplishment. It's not quite the same as when I was little. Maybe because it's late at night, maybe because _I'm _not the same as I used to be. Just for starters, there's the whole moral affiliation. What little girl wants to grow up and be the bad guy? I wanted to be a princess, for the record. "Doctor Impossible?"

"You can call me Jonathan. What is it?"

Oh my. "Jonathan." The name feels wrong somehow. "What did you want to be when you were little?"

He arches an eyebrow at me. "I don't know. An astronaut? Why?"

"Just thinking. No one wanted to be a supervillain when they grew up."

"I'd hate to see the kid that did, frankly."

"Yeah. Me too. It's the whole connotation. I don't think anyone is necessarily evil."

"Really?" It's a question, but it sounds like more of a statement.

"Really. There are just some people with different views than others. Some people value a human life more, or an animal life, or a culture, or a _dollar_."

"Hm."

"I think what you're doing is good."

"_What?"_

"Are you implying by that that you're aware you're an evil man?"

"To a certain extent. It's self-serving."

"But nothing self-serving is absolutely bad. When I steal, I don't do it to hurt people, and I'd avoid that if I could." I spread my arms and lean over to float on my back, then turn to him with my best impression of that enigmatic stare. "How about you? Does hurting people bother you?"

"I don't know. I guess not. It would depend on the person."

"I see." I want to ask him if it would matter any if he hurt me, but I don't. Some questions are best left unanswered. "We're fundamentally different in that respect. I really do _like _people. The problem is I don't socialize very well. And then there's the neuroses."

He does a short, almost sarcastic laugh. "Neuroses."

"I figure you've got to be at least a little screwed up to be a supervillain. I mean, why else wouldn't you choose to pursue truth and justice and all that crap the system tells you is what's good for you?"

"Why would you?"

"Not really sure. Can't say I can relate to the whole hero thing."

"You used to be a hero."

"I don't know why anyone would stick with the program, though. I did it for the glory more than anything else. And the money. But you can either work hard and get underpaid by people who wouldn't survive in a world without you, or you can just steal the money and watch them flounder beneath you. The heroes, I mean. I don't care one way or the other for everyone else."

"And you weren't ever part of that everyone else." This one is definitely a statement. Probably also an accusation, and I remember that Doctor Impossible got his powers from a lab accident. Really, the scarring isn't obvious. You wouldn't know unless you were looking.

I breathe in and watch my stomach rise and then fall in the water. "No." That sounds like an admittance. "My abilities surfaced when I was eleven and after that I didn't associate much with the rest of the populace, except to catch rapists and the like."

"You caught _rapists_?"

"Among other sexual deviants."

"Interesting choice of career."

"That was after I left home. I ran away when I was thirteen or fourteen. I went through the whole 'I hate my life' phase, decided my parents didn't know what was best for me anymore, and disappeared. They probably did know what was best for me; I just didn't listen. I haven't had much contact with them in a while. I tried to call home when the League invited me, but I must've dialed the wrong number. Either that or they moved, which I think is what happened, but I never really wanted to believe they'd go, too. I guess they figured I'd run off eventually, though, and it wasn't like I couldn't defend myself. I doubt they know who I am now. Or they might. They might know who Rio is, but I suppose if my present is gone then so are my parents." I've been kind of zoning out, caught up in the moment. I look in Jonathan's direction and he's not exactly gaping at me, but it's something like that, only more subtle. A lot of his expressions seem to fall under that category.

"Sorry." I smile apologetically. "I didn't mean to give you my whole life's story. One thing just led to another."

"It's alright, Synergy. May I call you Elizabeth?"

"Sure; I don't mind, if we're on a first name basis now." Damn it, I didn't mean for that to sound so wistful. I have my regrets, that's all. Everyone does. But now I'm all upset and I can't stop. I wish gaining my powers had given me a tougher skin. Who am I kidding? I miss my parents. My mother understood me, and my father put up with me. Nothing can change, though. I can't replace my past, but I can try and make a better future for myself.

If this, right here, right now, is the future I've built so far, this beach, this night, this ocean, and this very intriguing supervillain, then I'm happy about it. Whatever your moral alignment, you're not exempt from happiness. There are just different ways to get to it, but it doesn't take much more for me than it does your average lonely young female. I'd be happy to stay as I am. Because there's no money out here in the water and the night. There's no power or control or good or bad. And there's something really great in that. If only things could always be so ambiguous. But of course, they're not, and things go back to normal eventually whether or not you will them to.

In this case, things went back to the closest thing I have now to normal when my eyes were closed and I didn't see Doctor Impossible or Jonathan lean down over me and very gently place his lips against mine. At first I don't know what's happening, then I start flailing and gasping and breathing in saltwater and then finally coughing and I feel like a musical scale or something, rising and falling, and ending in a crash.

"I'm sorry," he says, stunned. He's moved a few feet away while I was hacking the water back out of my lungs.

"Why?"

"Because I didn't mean to scare you."

"No, why did you do that?"

Now he looks hurt and I start to feel bad despite myself. "I don't know."

And that's it. That's all there is to it. I've got some serious sorting out to do. So I turn away and start back toward the shore, and he follows as close as he dares to come. "Look Syn... Elizabeth, I'm sorry, I didn't mean... I'm sorry. Alright?"

"It's fine."

"I can tell it isn't."  
"Well, it is."

I face him again and try to keep my expression as blank as possible. The fact is, though, lots of things around here besides the guy's name are impossible as well. "I think we should go inside now."

"Okay." That's all the affirmation I need. I snatch up the towels on the sandy ground and throw him the one that wasn't touching the sand. "I really am sorry," he continues. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong." I manage a weak smile. "I'm just confused. I don't know."

It's not like I didn't want this. Most certainly not. I'm being absolutely honest; I really don't know what the problem is. Maybe it was just that he surprised me. I'm not going to speculate until I can get some head space, so to speak. My power derives from mental energy, as I've said. I haven't used it in a while, and, long story short, it has a nasty tendency to boil over if I don't keep a strict watch over it.

Almost everybody knows the urban legend, the pseudo-science, the story, whatever you want to call it: they say, and this happens to teenagers especially, that too much emotion can cause strange things to happen. If you ever see one of those real-life Ghostbuster shows, chances are there's at least one episode where some family thinks they've got a poltergeist in their house, one of those kinds that throws your shit around and generally just creates a racket. Usually the family's got at least one teenager, and that's where they eventually figure out the "haunting" is coming from. Emotional overload, big surprise. It's pretty far-spread, and (honest to God) the stories really are based on fact. There's more than one reason my parents took me out of public school once my powers surfaced.

If this is happening to you or someone you know, please call the following one-eight hundred number toll free, because you've probably got a case of psychic shenanigans. Everyone has weaknesses or drawbacks to their superpowers, and in my case, if I don't start hurling junk around or melting stuff, it starts to do it on its own. Good luck trying to convince anybody you don't know what happened when you go to the bathroom and the next guest finds the toilet on the other side of the room and most of the plumbing melted.

If I had a conversation with Jonathan/Doctor Impossible on the way back to the room, I don't know what it was. You never know how many things are in danger of melting or exploding under high amounts of heat until you step on them, or grab them, or wear them while simultaneously trying not to melt or explode them. Good lord, I probably ought not tell this man that my clothes are in danger of literally bursting off of me if he so much as kisses me. I'd never hear the end of it.

All I know is he's silent once we're alone together again in our room. I escape into the bathroom, lock the door, and sit myself in the tub on a towel. With no windows and only a crack under the door, I'm not in danger of accidentally exposing either of us.

I cloak my body in a layer of plasma to try and burn it off quickly. But something strange catches my attention. It's no longer the kiwi green color it once was. I've been putting it off for a while now, but I'm forced to admit, the color is changing. It got darker by increments for a while – hardly noticeable, really. Now I'm looking at the world through a murky haze. If this is even _green_, it's not flattering. Looks like someone mixed too much of some other color into the palette. I happen to know who that someone is, and he's been influencing me more than I would like to admit, apparently.

This stuff is, of course, an extension of myself, as in, my mental well-being, or lack thereof. To a certain extent, it's a measure of my basest feelings, so I guess I'm worse off than I thought. _Now _I am, anyway. I swear it wasn't like this two days ago, and I doubt the last few nails in the coffin were gradually hammered.

"Elizabeth?" A swift knocking on the door that is trying very hard not to sound too frantic. It startles me and the muddied mess of my psyche puffs out like a goddamn morning star. To be fair, the spines couldn't puncture anything, but it's an unusually defensive reaction all the same. "I, um. I just want to make sure you're alright. Not, uh, throwing up or anything."

That makes me smile a little. "I'm not throwing up." It takes an effort to not destroy anything while I snake a tendril of smoke to the doorknob and unlock it, but I manage. "Come in if you want. Ever seen a psychic lose their shit?"

He opens the door cautiously; I'm sure he doesn't really know what to expect. He blinks and tries to hide his surprise, or repulsion, or whatever else there might be. I'm curled up, knees to my face, in the corner of the tub, my medieval torture weapon of an aura rotating around me. "Oh. Um. What's wrong with it?"

"I don't know. Not very pretty at the moment."

"Why did it do that?" He's keeping his distance from the telepathic armor, but I wouldn't hurt him, no matter how out of control I get.

"I'm not sure. The color has changed before, but not... like this. It reflects a shift in mental state."

"Will it go back to normal?"

"I don't think it _has _a normal setting." I laugh, and my quills begin to recede.

"Oh. Well... sorry for, uh, breaking your power."

"It's not broken. Look." I hold up my hand, and it reaches past the tips of the spikes. Definitely an improvement. But aside from that, there's a little shimmer of dark red close to my body. If that's the replacement I'm getting, it would explain the muddy coloration. When I shifted from blue to green, I just got a nice turquoise mix before the green took over. Now I feel like an idiot. Opposites on the color wheel make _brown_. Duh.

"Red. I approve."

"I'm sure you do. You probably made it do that," I mutter, tucking my hand back in.

"No reason to pin this on me. I'm not in charge of your emotional security."

"Says you."

"Well, that's a bit of a mood killer." The spines had receded, but now they're beginning to appear again, and Doctor Impossible stiffens on his seat at the side of the tub. "Whoa. What was that for?"

"I'm not controlling it." Some parts of my built-in defense mechanism I don't have to mess with, for better or for worse. I wish I wasn't busy letting my battery run down, or I'd shut it off completely. Better for both of us he doesn't know what I'm thinking, even vaguely. I'm not done sorting myself out yet.

"Then it just naturally spikes up?" He doesn't sound too convinced.

"_No_. I don't _know _why it's doing it." I do, perfectly well. I feel threatened, or otherwise insecure. Either way, my security blanket's getting a little more Medieval-torturey, and it's starting to pulse in time with my heart. Quickly. "Alright. I'm just going to run until I'm empty, then I'm going to bed. I'd rather not talk about this tonight."

"Elizabeth-"

"Don't give me that look."

"Fine, fine, I get it. You know, you could've just asked me to leave. No reason to get all... _porcupiney. _I can take rejection."

"That's not what this is about."

"Then what _is _it about?"

"I'm just trying to sort some things out, alright? I don't think I can do this right now. Any, um, _relationship_, I mean."

"What do you want from me?"

"I don't know. A companion, for now. It's not as if I don't love you, because I do. Really. But I have more issues than a psychiatrist can sort out in several lifetimes, and I'm good with that. I just need you to be, too."

He seems alright with that, and when he looks at me, it's not Jonathan I see, but Doctor Impossible. There's the arrogantly arched eyebrow and the smirk; this is the face I have come to love. Doctor Impossible will never be Jonathan, or the other way around. One is a man and the other a supervillain, and when those two meet, usually one is at the end of a death ray.

Later on, we're lounging on the king size bed in the master room together, watching TV in our pajamas. Jonathan's arm is around my shoulders, but that's all the contact there is. "So," I begin, "What are you going to do with that supercomputer you've been so hard at work on?" I'm pretty sure I know exactly what it's for, but there's no harm in having him explain it to me. Maybe he'll be less inclined to reveal his plan to any wayward heroes.

"Well, hacking banks. The whole money scheme gave me quite a few ideas I haven't tried yet."

"Oh, really? What's the plan, then?"

He's got this strangely determined look in his eyes that I haven't seen since we left the storage unit, full of passion and zeal. Doctor Impossible is In The Zone, the same way I am when I rob banks and stores. "First I hack banks in China or Russia or some other country, throw off whoever might be poking around here. But it still has to be a big country so we're noticed. Probably China. Meanwhile, you'll be roving this country to gather financial resources locally, and we'll both order equipment for building zeta lasers, robots, and war zeppelins."

"I thought you tried a war zeppelin already."

"This time it'll be different! I'm thinking at least a dozen war zeppelins, all on autopilot. With rocket launchers and robots. _Rocket launching robots_."

"Then what?" You would not believe how hard I am trying not to laugh right now. But I have to remain serious.

"_Then _comes the official phase one of the plan. We park everything on a jungle base in South America. I don't have my island base anymore, so Guatemala will have to do. Imagine, we could take over an abandoned Mayan pyramid!"

"That _would _be sufficiently imperial."

"We'll build it up with Plexiglass and steel. It will be a castle. No, a fortress!"

"Both?"

"And _so much more_."

"Alright. Sounds good. Phase two?"

"I'm thinking about it. The jungle base will take a while."

"That's true," I concede. This is going to cost a lot of money. Billions, I'd wager. Do you know how much a zeppelin costs? Me neither. But with both of us working on financial aid, the plan is at our fingertips. "Wait a second. Why do you need zeppelins with rocket launching robots if you don't know what you're going to do with them?"

He shrugs, but doesn't remove his arm from around me. "Always a good idea to have an army of robot zeppelins at the ready." Obviously, I have been out of the loop. Or something. Here I figured my stickers would be quite enough to let people know that Synergy is out there, and she is not friendly. Apparently I was missing several zeppelins. Who knew?

"Jon? What time is it?"

He glances somewhat reluctantly at the digital clock on the nightstand. "Almost five in the morning."

"So much for a good night's sleep, then, I guess."

"There's still time. I wasn't aware we were running on any specific schedule, unless you've made us _breakfast _reservations somewhere."

"No breakfast reservations," I snort. "I only planned dinner for us... um. Yesterday. We're here the rest of today and tomorrow until ten, but if what the clerk said was true about no one renting this room, I doubt they'll push us out in a hurry."

"We're on honeymoon," Jonathan says, smirking. "They wouldn't want to _interrupt_."

"You can stop. It would be fine with me if you stopped."

He holds up his hands in surrender. "Okay, fine. So what does this make you?"

"What does what make me?"

"Well, what are you? My minion?"

"I'm my own supervillain, thank you very much."

"Supervillains don't have partners. Sidekick, then?"

I make a face. "Somehow being an evil sidekick sounds more humiliating than being a good one."

"Henchman?"

"Breasts," I say with a helpful gesture.

"Hench_woman_?"

"I'm not a hired gun. You are."

"But I'm the one who wants to take over the world."

"And that makes you the boss?"

Another shrug. "Eventually, at least."

"Can't we just be a duo?"

He sighs at me exasperatedly, but it's not the same as that first exasperated sigh. You know, the one where he called me a failure and decided to take over. "Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth. I suppose I can forgive you because you're young, but that's not how it works."

"Things are different now. We don't prance around in red and gold tutus anymore."

"_It is not a tutu, it is a leotard with a cape and patent leather boots._"

"Whatever, guy. I'm going to bed."

I start to get up, and his hand slips over mine. "Why not stay here?"

"And sleep in the same bed as _you_?"

"You bought us one mattress back at the old storage unit. No difference."  
"Except that there is definitely more than one mattress around here. And we never slept on that one at the same time."

"We might have, if I had kept more reasonable hours," he admits. "Truthfully, I'm not even tired."  
"Then I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

He directs his big blue eyes toward me. Be careful with supervillains, ladies. They will learn your weaknesses _fast_. It's what they're good at. "_Fine_," I growl. "Just stop looking at me like that." I lie back down where I was, maybe a little closer to him than before, and turn on my side, resting my head on his shoulder.

"Libby?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry for being such an ass before. I didn't know you."

"Ditto."


	6. Conspire to Ignite

I'd go through the rest of the impromptu vacation, but none of it is particularly important, as far as I'm concerned. Really, that first night was all that made any difference. Don't ask me why things never got very awkward between us. I assume it's because after the fact we never had time to ask questions ourselves. I know I love Doctor Impossible, and it only becomes more apparent to me as time goes on. But there's a difference between loving someone and being in love with them. Mine is a wish to serve, so I guess you could call me a minion of sorts.

It might be easier to deal with the title if only he had more than just me, but at the same time, I'm glad it's just the two of us. We're alone together more often than not, and in a more logical sense, the more people you have, the harder it is to keep track of them all. I would assume so, anyway. I've never been a leader; I'm not cut out for it. I either work alone, or as an underling, and the weird part is it doesn't really bother me.

Not that he calls me "underling" or "minion". He stopped calling me anything like that weeks ago. I'm Syn when in costume, Libby when out. It doesn't bother me to be called "Libby". He's the only one who does it, after all. I don't know what his take is on all this. I don't know how he thinks of me, and I don't think I ever will know. He's as inscrutable as ever, but it's part of the mystique. If I could figure him out, a superhero might be able to, too. And we wouldn't want that, now, would we?

The house is nice. Four bedroom, three bath, really not as big as you'd think that would be. The yard is what's big. After a couple of weeks I finally caved and hired a caretaker to mow the lawn on a regular basis and keep the neat hedges from growing over that white picket fence. Oh, yes, if I were looking for domestic bliss, this house would be at the end of the rainbow.

Frankly, I think it's growing on me. I'd say I don't remember the last time I cooked a meal, but I guess it was those steaks a month or so back. I've resolved that Rio must have run away from home like I did, because otherwise she'd certainly have grown into Carbon Copy Female. There must be a universe somewhere where good me isn't giving evil me problems, and instead evil me runs rampant while good me (neutral me?) cooks dinner for her husband.

Speaking of spousal relations. "What's for dinner, honey?"

"Don't call me that," I growl at him. "I'm making chili. Must be the Mexican in me."

"Anyone ever tell you you'd make an excellent housewife?"

"No one ever had the opportunity. If you keep it up, no one will in the future, either."

"Now, calm down. Don't go shaking your spatula at me."

"_Ladle_."

"Whatever." He pauses and something under his hands explodes. Thank goodness _someone _had the sense to deactivate the smoke alarms. "Shit."

"Maybe you'd be able to concentrate better if you left my problems alone and focused on yours."

He sucks on one of his fingertips, scowling. First degree burns. Can't say I remember what a burn feels like (last time I know of, I stuck my hand on the side of a pot my mother specifically told me was too hot to touch when I was three), but I'd guess it's not fun. I return to the kitchen briefly, then cross the room with a Band-Aid. "Here."

He gives me a strange look. "I'm an evil mastermind. I don't need a Band-Aid."

"What do you want, then, a kiss to make it better?"

"_No._" Our banter isn't really the smartassery contest it sounds like anymore. It's really a long, semi-rehearsed string of teasing, for the most part. Don't get me wrong, I still get angry at him from time to time. It's hard not to lose patience with someone as stubborn as (or more stubborn than) you are. We seem to have fallen into an easy partnership. I'd hated to say I told him so (but I did say it, and I secretly savored it), but the beach trip did us some good after all.

When not cooking, I'm sewing. I hate myself sometimes. I'm having a hard time recalling any sort of education I might've gotten from my mother or a Home Ec class, and stitching spandex is tough, but it's not like I'm wasting hard-earned money on materials. I'd ask everyone else why they don't just steal money like I do instead of earning an hourly wage, but a world where everybody stole everything would suck. That, I will be the first to admit, is true.

I made a new logo, so to speak. My stickers won't change; those are uniquely mine. But I'm working some red and gold in, and ditching the green. It feels wrong when my plasma color doesn't match my costume anymore. Black and green with red makes me feel like a goddamn gothic Christmas ornament or something.

So that's where the red comes in, and gold, of course, goes well with it and happens to be the contrast color of choice for my colleague. I am trying to think about how Doctor Impossible would design my costume if he got his hands on it. Some armor here, some fins there, a cape. I'm almost embarrassed for it, but if he can prance around in that stupid helmet, then I can wear a breastplate. With shoulder pads. Hideously large metal shoulder pads. I'm doing my best here. I haven't dropped the black, at least, or the domino mask, or the silver wig. I don't think silver looks quite right with the other colors, but it's my persona. My _S _is gone, and so is... all of my costume except the black jumpsuit, so without the wig I figure I might as well just change my name altogether. And that's not going to happen because _Synergy _took me a while to think of.

I made the mistake of telling Doctor Impossible when my birthday is. At the time, I didn't think it was important, but by December eighth, when I've gotten my costume finished ("Not bad for a first try" was the reaction, which is good enough for me) it matters a little more.

"Good morning." Someone is weirdly smiley today.  
"Oh, god! Get out of my bed!" Alright, technically he's not _in _my bed, he's sort of perched at the edge, but it's close enough to bother me.

"Happy birthday, Elizabeth."

"Did you not hear me?"  
"I made you something."  
"If it's breakfast, I don't want it. Out."

Jonathan sighs and crawls off of my mattress. "It's not breakfast, but if it was, my feelings would be hurt."

"You have feelings?"  
"Shut up. Meet me in the Lair."

The Lair is what he's taken to calling the basement, since it's where he keeps most of his creations, including the supercomputer. Lately the good Doctor has been hard at work committing a felony a minute. I wouldn't mind except that I've got a bit of a competitive streak. I'm supposed to be waiting for a vehicle or four for use in committing my countrywide crime spree, and suddenly, I have a sneaking suspicion I know what my birthday present is. He's certainly excited about something, anyway.

I throw a long sleeved shirt and a pair of sweatpants on over the camisole and panties I wear to bed. This house is too big to retain any heat, and the snow's about a foot deep today. It is freezing in here, and it'll be worse in the basement, but I probably ought to get this over with so I can have my coffee. So I trudge down the stairs to the ground floor, clumsily locate the basement door (helpfully left open for me), and trudge down those stairs, too.

Good lord. It's like if a tank made love to a jeep and then they let Doctor Impossible mess with the genes while the thing was in the womb.

"Do you like it?" I can tell he wants to bounce a little or something. He wants it so badly, but he doesn't want to look any less threatening than usual.

"What _is _it?"

"It's the SynerJeep," Jonathan informs me, gesturing toward the front of the vehicle. Sure enough, there's my logo, cast in what looks like brass, but is probably titanium or something. The whole thing is black, but it has gold metal accents and dark red tinted windows. I think my head might just barely reach to the bottoms of the doors.

"Oh." I'm trying to sound excited. I really am.

"You don't like it, do you?" Dammit. I don't think I've ever seen him look so hurt. Well, except for that time back at the beach, and I don't want to relive it all that badly.

"No, of course I like it." I do. It's just hard to show it when one is dragged out of one's bed and forced to marvel without coffee first. Even if it's not the way I'd want to wake up on my birthday, I manage a smile that I think even looks a little apologetic. "I just woke up, is all. Really, Jon, this is... very nice of you. Very thoughtful of you to remember. Thank you." Is it just me who thinks maybe 'nice' and 'thoughtful' aren't usually words you'd use to describe an evil genius? People certainly are complicated.

"Wonderful. I'm glad you like it, Elizabeth. Now we can get some _real _work done. I wouldn't have held out on you so long, but it seemed necessary, what with your birthday so soon."

Which reminds me. "When is _your _birthday?"

"I don't remember. It's been a while since it was last celebrated."

"You have an eidetic memory."

I see surprise register on his face. "August fourteenth. You'd do best to forget it."

"Don't tell me what I'd do best to do. I'm going to go do best to make breakfast."

"It's your birthday."

"Then I'll be sure to take a day off from lounging on my money piles to not make breakfast once you rule the world."

I start back up the stairs, and Doctor Impossible follows a couple of steps behind. "Libby, my dear, you have the strangest fantasies of any woman I've ever met."  
"And how many women have told you their deepest desires?"

"I can count the number on one hand. Two fingers of one hand, to be exact. And one of those fingers might actually be a lie anyway. Quite a bit of the rest was."

"Then that's not saying much, is it?" I try to ignore the wistful tone of his voice when he talks about Lily. I wouldn't admit it if my life was at stake, but it bothers me.

"I suppose not."

Breakfast is fruit and toast. Not much of a birthday meal, but it's what's left in the fridge and pantry. I refuse to go back to eating Chinese takeout, but it has become painfully obvious that I'm also neglecting my duty to go shopping every so often to keep us well-stocked. The house turned out to be more out of the way than I'd like. It takes me five minutes just to get off the property, and then I have to walk another half hour to get to the nearest grocery store. Remind me to get a car that doesn't look like something off of Monster Truck Rumble.

After I've filled my stomach, I'm feeling better. "So, tell me about this... SynerJeep," I say, lazily pushing a butter knife enveloped in red around the table. The glow has that shimmery quality my power gets when I'm in a good mood. It's sort of iridescent.

"I'm glad you asked." And there's that familiar defiant gleam in Jonathan's eye. He has transitioned to Doctor Impossible. "It's state of the art, really. I don't mean to brag, but it's true." He totally means to brag.

"Great. _How _is it state of the art?"

"Be patient. At the basest level, you will never actually have to drive this car. There's an on board computer that does all the work for you. It hasn't even got a steering wheel. Just tell it where you want to be, and it'll take you."

Alright, that's pretty impressive. His face looks expectant. There's more, but I have to ask first. "Very nice. What else?"

He counts off on his fingers. "Vaults to keep your cash in. Entirely bulletproof exterior. Heatproof up to three thousand degrees Fahrenheit, then the platinum will melt, so do be careful." _Platinum_? How much did this thing _cost_? I try not to think too much about it. "Freeze-proof, too. I don't think anything short of the end times will hurt this vehicle, and even then, I'd suggest it as a bunker. Of course, Libby, you'd be worried about this, so I made sure you wouldn't have to pay for gas. It runs on zeta energy."

Isn't that the stuff that caused his accident? "Is that _safe_?"

"Should be." He winks at me. He is having way too much fun with this. "Oh, and..." The pause is for emphasis. Here it comes, the part I'm supposed to like best. I can tell from the smirk. "...there's a hoverboard in the back."

"_Hoverboard_?" I squeak. This just got legit.

"With a charging unit. You've got about six hours of battery life, which I figured should be enough, but just in case, you can carry a spare battery on your back."

Right now I don't particularly care about how much battery life my hoverboard might get. I want to mess with it. This is officially the best birthday ever, and I have to admit, I didn't think an awesome birthday would be what I got out of hanging around the Smartest Man in the World. "Can I... can we... I want to see it."

"Naturally," Doctor Impossible smiles, fluidly rising from his chair. He trails in my frantic footsteps slowly, enjoying every second of praise he garners. "Now, Libby, keep in mind it's no _power staff _or anything, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway."

"_Open the car_." I think my eyes are blinking one at a time.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he says, shaking his head. The grin has not left his face. He fishes a remote out of the pocket of his flannel lounge pants and presses a button on it. The car's headlights flash, and I attempt to open the trunk, but it doesn't work. "Libby. Did you really think I'd make a car that opened with just a _remote_?"

"Maybe." Yes. That's how cars work, isn't it?

"If I ever thought you were a genius, this would've dismissed those thoughts."

"_Just open the car._"

He chuckles at me. "No, no. That's _your _job. There's a retina scanner on the driver's door. Naturally, I have a program that will override it, but where's the fun in that?" I rush to the front seat and hold my eyes open as wide as I can, searching for, I don't know, some kind of camera or something. Doctor Impossible coughs to suppress a laugh. It's a few seconds before a robotic voice announces, "Authentication confirmed. Welcome, Synergy."

_Ohmigod this is the coolest thing ever. _"How do I open the trunk?"

"Voice recognition confirmed. Access granted." I hear a soft _click _as the trunk pops open.

"Oh." Now I skitter back around to the other side of the car, and summon my strength to lift the massive, bulletproof rear door. But it comes up with surprising ease.

My hoverboard rests mounted on the left wall, while a line of gleaming safes decorates the right. Everything inside is gold and red with black accents to contrast with the black exterior. Doctor Impossible even had the good taste to put a big bow on the hoverboard, which I very gently place on the floor of the SynerJeep.

It feels lighter than it should in my hands, especially concerning how cumbersome it could be. The board is about three feet long and two feet wide, and it has the same shape as a bodyboard made for skimming across shallow waves. I half expect to find a wrist strap, but I guess that wouldn't look very cool. The top is glistening gold with a rim of some sort of red colored metal. Two black spots mark where my feet should go, but there's not much other than that to indicate the thing's purpose. It's nothing but an aerodynamic platform of seamless metal. I flip it over, and the bottom is black with a large insignia, presumably so when frantic citizens look up, they'll know exactly who just made off with their life's savings. It's for the greater good, honestly.

I notice the red rim shows up on the black side, too, and toward the edges of the board, narrows off into a nasty-looking edge. Naturally, I go to touch it.

"Wait a minute, Libby, it's-"

"Ow." Damn, now I've got a paper cut. Of sorts.

"...Sharp." He takes a moment to sigh and rub his temple. "I suppose I should've expected as much. You're lucky you didn't hack that finger off altogether."

"That would be a lame birthday. Made less lame by the fact that I still have a hoverboard."

"That's true. Would you like to try it out?"

"_Do I breathe air?"_

"Well, you never can tell, really, with metahumans, but I'll take that as a yes. You're going to need the hoverboots." He points back toward the inside of the monster truck, where I completely ignored a pair of red boots with gold metal toes and black soles. They have fins, but I'm not complaining.

"THE BOOTS HOVER, _TOO_?"

Doctor Impossible's eyebrows furrow. "Um. No. But they have smart magnets inside that interface with the board."

"Smart magnets?"

"In other words, they don't stick to everything iron, cobalt, or nickel. Just that board, and it's a strong hold."

I'd ask how one makes a magnet "smart" but it's probably the same situation as with the smart fabric of my old suit. I don't want to know. Less science, more fly... ence. I zip up the boots, and I can tell they're custom made to fit my feet, if not only for their abilities. You own a pair of custom shoes one time, and you know the feel forever.

"What now?" I ask him from my perch on the bumper. It was the only place I could find to sit other than the floor, and my feet dangle over the four foot drop to the ground.

"The boots also function as an on switch, so to speak. Now you can make a hasty getaway without worrying about those pesky power buttons."

"Thanks for trying to sell this to me, but I'm already sold."

"Whatever you say. Here." He lifts the board underneath my feet, and the soles of the boots attach to the black spots on top like metal snaps for clothing. The hoverboard powers up with a soft vibration under my feet. I can't hear a thing. I begin to stand and the board holds my weight easily, balancing parallel to the floor a couple of feet off the ground.

Hoverboards aren't all that uncommon nowadays. Certainly, they're expensive, but not any more than a cheap car, depending on the model. Technologically, they're quite advanced. There's no need to stretch my arms out or try to keep balanced like you see in old movies. Balancing on a hoverboard is easy as long as you know how to stand on solid ground. I can faintly feel the spinning of the gyroscope inside – the internal computer reads your foot position and weight distribution a few hundred times per second, quickly making predictions based on movement more rapid than you can even feel yourself taking. The board knows exactly how you're balanced at any given time, and it holds you up more solidly than your own feet can. I wouldn't normally bother with learning this kind of stuff, but I've always wanted a hoverboard, so I ended up reading quite a bit about them. I never got one before now, though, because frankly I don't trust corporate technology. Anything with a computer built in is bound to have something you don't know is there, and who knows what they could be putting in the stuff people buy _en masse_?

I've certainly tried hoverboards before, though, and this one is unlike any other. It's lighter, stronger, and more... weaponized. This much I can tell from just standing on it. I gently lean forward to prod the board into moving, and the acceleration almost knocks me off, but just as Doctor Impossible had promised, the boots don't lose their grip. "Whoa."

"Ah, yes, the _speed _might take a little getting used to."

"How fast does it go?"

"How fast are you comfortable with?" he answers, with a sly grin. "It's faster than the ones the police have, and that's what's important, right?"

"_Damn_." Do you _know _how fast police hoverboards go? Faster than most cars, that's for sure.

"It's made for maximum speed and agility. It also flies upside-down."

I crouch and put my weight on my heels to gain altitude, then rock hard onto my right side. Sure enough, the board flips, and I'm just fine. Normal hoverboards will crash if you're not careful with banking. Obviously I won't have that problem. "How does it do this?" Normal hoverboards also only have whatever it is that makes them hover on their bottom sides.

"A combination of small-scale antigravity field and neodymium magnet."

"Neo-what?"

"Neodymium magnets," he begins, as if reciting from an encyclopedia, "are the strongest magnets known to man. Coupled with a field-reversing mechanism and an electric amplifier of sorts, a neodymium magnet will pick up the smallest amount of magnetic material in the air or ground, and use the polar repulsion of it to keep the board airborne, whatever its direction relative to the Earth's surface."

"Oh." I guess that makes sense. I'm just not going to ask anymore. Knowing doesn't do me a lick of good.

It takes me a couple of tries to get the board right-side up again, but riding it is no problem. Pretty soon I've gotten used to the acceleration, and I'm zipping around the room almost flat to the board's surface, taking advantage of its very precise steering. This thing moves as quickly as my reflexes do. Crashing shouldn't be an issue.

"Done yet?" Doctor Impossible asks from the floor. I can hardly hear him over the rush of wind in my ears. I've flown before; to a certain extent my power allows me that much, but this won't drain me in a matter of minutes. Reluctantly, I slow and then finally come to a stop in front of him.

"How do I get this thing off my feet?"

"Land."

"That makes sense." Sure enough, I lower the board until it sits flat on the ground, and my feet pop off easily. I scoop the board off the ground and place it back into its dock inside the SynerJeep before turning to my companion. "Thank you. This is all... really incredible. I can't imagine where you'd get all the stuff to make this. Or _how _you did it."

"All in a day's work, Elizabeth. It wasn't very difficult."

"Of course it wasn't difficult. It wouldn't be, for you."

He just shrugs enigmatically and starts back up the stairs, leaving me to my own devices. I decide I'm not done yet after all, and grab the board before permitting the car to close and lock itself. This is going to be quite a bit of fun. I force myself to walk in a slow, dignified manner up the basement stairs, then up the spiral flight to the second floor where my room is. I suit up, proud of myself for sanding down the rough edges of my new armor before I needed it. Time to revisit some old haunts.


	7. Loneliness be Over

I really ought to have taken the cold weather into consideration before I designed my suit, but a little chill won't kill me. Admittedly, there's not a whole lot that could. The hoverboard hasn't got a speed gauge, so I don't know how fast I'm going, but what I do know is that I'm nearing the inner city area of Boston in under half an hour. Once I get close enough to see the individual branches of the snow-covered trees of Boston Common over some of the lower buildings, I slow enough to stand up and let my cape billow behind me.

At first, people don't seem to notice me. Then a few pedestrians look up, and soon plenty of people see the glistening ringed planet, crossed by a rungless ladder with an arrowhead on top that marks the underside of my hoverboard. It's a misdemeanor to fly your hoverboard something like more than two feet above the ground, and almost all current models come with a built in lock that stops them from flying any higher. See why I don't trust those things?

Anyway, a misdemeanor for improper hoverboard use is about to become the least of my issues. I go around the city a couple of times, letting an audience grow, before selecting a nice, big bank for today's business. What the name of it was I don't remember. I have to admit, that wasn't quite my top priority. Getting in proves no issue at all. Hell, I don't even use the automatic door except to smash through the safety glass. Not my fault they don't make the things quick enough to open up when I need them to. The hoverboard's bladed edges make a great bludgeon, and I'm rolling across the scratchy carpet of the interior, tucked between bulletproof hoverboard and bulletproof cape. No one's opened fire on me yet, though.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of America's financial system." I glance at a clock and note that it's almost one in the afternoon. Oops. "This is a hold up. If you would be so kind as to open any cash registers, safes, and the like..." No one moves. "Alright, that's fine. I'd like to wait until the local news network gets here, too. It's not like I'm on a tight schedule or anything." Everyone's frozen. It's quiet... _too _quiet. Except for the sirens and the yelling outside.

A deep voice resonates over the rest: "Stop, fiend!" Oh, lord. Not this guy again. I couldn't fight a real hero, not even on my birthday? Best just to play along.

"Racing Stripes! We meet again!"

"Who are you?"

I get consolation from the thought that he'd probably remember me if my costume hadn't changed. "No matter, I'll just reintroduce myself! My name is Synergy, and you should remember it! Are you the best Boston has to offer? Must not be a whole lot of crime here if they keep sending for you."

"Shut your mouth, criminal scum! I'm the best the _world _has to offer!"

"In that case, looks like the world will be no match for Doc-" I stop myself before I leak the rest. Oh, how I want to divulge it to him. But that would be a very bad idea. "Forget that last part! I'm here to steal every penny this bank has to offer, and I'm not about to let you get between me and my dollars."

"We'll just see about that!"

"Oh, will we?"

Yes, Syn. Yes, we will. I need to work on my banter, not that Racing Stripes is good enough for even my half-assed attempts. But I seem to have riled him up enough, because he growls at me and runs toward me head on. Predictable. I've lashed him with a tendril of plasma before he even knows what hit him. Now, I'm not the brightest bulb in the box, but this guy needed replacing long ago. He backs up a little, then runs at me... _again_. With the exact same results. That's a symptom of insanity, as I remember. He tries it once more before backing off and snarling, "That all you can do? Why don't you fight me hand to hand?"

I give him a shrug-and-smirk combo. "No reason to. Now, back off so I can get some real work done." Around his bulky shoulders, I can see a couple of news vans beginning to arrive on the scene, so I give Racing Stripes a red-hot token of appreciation right across the collarbone, then turn away to begin my work. "Anyone else want to try and keep me from my paycheck?" It's the B-movie hero's scream in the background that does it. Now, that oh-so-satisfying sound of registers opening. I don't hear any safes, but I'll get to those. I strut across the tellers' counters like a model across a catwalk, absorbing bills and coins up into a bubble of plasma bobbing loyally behind me. Once that money's picked up, I hop back on the hoverboard, and after only seconds of zooming down hallways blasting away doors as if they were dominoes, I've found not one, but four large vaults. I drain them unhurriedly and add their contents (including the gold bars, for once) to my rapidly growing money bubble. Why do people always keep wads of hundreds, gold, and jewels all in the same place?

I give the bank another once-over, but I've got everything of value floating in my mental blockade. As I hover back into the lobby, I notice I've accumulated quite the crowd of spectators. I wonder if Doctor Impossible thought to turn on the news back at the house, because this is most certainly going live. I spot an anchorman outside the smashed glass door and make my way over, to the cameraman's terror. "Hello."

The man starts and turns around. "Mind if I borrow that?" I ask as I pluck his microphone from his fingers. "Good _afternoon_, Boston! Send your police and send your heroes, but no one can stop me! I am Synergy, the Million Dollar Woman, and I suggest you get used to the name, because you'll be hearing it a lot from now on!" I give the camera a wink, hand the nice man his microphone back, and get the hell out of there. Even if I hadn't made my announcement, they'd know who pulled this heist eventually. I left a few stickers on the inside of the bank.

I'm in the process of rising above the skyscrapers when Doctor Impossible's voice sounds from my hoverboard. "Synergy. Get to the Harvard Bridge. I've got the SynerJeep there." I'd have fallen off the board if the magnets weren't keeping me on.

"_Jesus, _don't scare me like that! You couldn't have told me there was a microphone in the board?"

I can hear the grin in his voice. "I like to have a few tricks up my sleeve."

I sigh and make my way through the streets to the Charles River. I wouldn't have known which bridge was the right one, except that the monster truck isn't hard to spot, and I suppose neither am I with my glowing orb of money floating along behind me. Once I begin to lose altitude the police start shooting at me. I heard the sirens pick up and begin chasing me some time ago, but apparently I wasn't close enough to shoot. Or something. Most of the bullets _ping _off the underside of the hoverboard; I barely feel them.

I hear what sounds like a machine gun, and the police aren't too keen on shooting at me all of a sudden. I look down to see what stopped them, and the _hoverboard _is returning fire. Say what you will about Doctor Impossible; the man takes good care of his minions. Minion. Singular. I make it to the bridge without a hitch. Doctor Impossible is parked on the median. Very inconspicuous. The trunk swings open for me and I tumble in, releasing my psychic hold on the money only once he commands it closed again.

"Very good, Synergy. Very, very good."

"I _know_," I mutter back, from my position on the floor of the trunk. I manage to sit up and place the hoverboard solidly on the ground so it relinquishes its hold on my boots. "I've been doing this for upwards of eight years."

"Eight years isn't long compared to the experience some of us have." He leans back from the front seat to give me a look. "Anyway, I was just trying to offer you a compliment. I haven't seen you in action before now."

"Oh." And here I thought he was just being an ass, like he usually is. "Thanks."

It occurs to me that we really have mostly kept to ourselves, career-wise. I don't often venture to the Lair while he's working, and he's never followed me out on one of my robberies. Maybe we ought to spend more time on the job together. God knows I wouldn't mind.

But I wouldn't mind a lot of things right now, whether they'd usually irritate me or not. Bills are still making their way to the floor of the SynerJeep when Doctor Impossible notices the police coming after us and tells it to take us home in as convoluted a way as the computer can think of. I wouldn't care if the police followed us straight back to the house. It's probably weaponized somehow anyway. I am _so _happy right now. This is the high I can only get when I literally have more dollars than I can count in a week (and don't underestimate me; I work fast).

Nobody can ever really let go of their first love. Doctor Impossible becomes a very quick friend with benefits as soon as I've got enough money to swim in. I have to resist the urge to take my clothes off, but I throw off my mask, at least. Would it be too much to put a couple of fifty-cent pieces over my eyes and treat this as a girls' day out?

"Syn, what in God's name are you _doing_?"

"Huh?" Lost in euphoria, my voice is lacking the edge it usually has when I'm sober (as it were).

"You don't need to lay back there; there's plenty of room in the front for you. And put your mask back on. What if someone were to see?"

"See what?"

"_Your face, Syn. Your secret identity._"

"That would be a bummer, I guess." Alright, this is starting to bother me. The question is, though, why isn't he back here, too?

"Yes, to put it lightly. Put your mask on and come here."

"_Why_?"

"Because – Goddamn it, get out of that money. You can count it later."

"I'm not counting it, I'm _wallowing in my riches._"

"And why is that necessary?"

I sit up and stare at him lazily. He looks irritated, but it's beyond my concern. "Was that a rhetorical question?"

"What? _No_! Be civilized, Synergy. Money is filthy."

Wait a second. "Are you saying you've never rolled in your money piles before?"

Doctor Impossible sort of wrinkles his nose at me. "No. Why would I do that?"

Oh, god. Everything I thought I knew was a lie. "And here I figured you just wanted to enjoy your dollars in private. It's okay, I thought, I like to roll in my money naked, too. No biggie. But you're saying you just _don't_? At _all_?" I thought that was just a supervillain thing. I mean, everyone bathes in their wealth, right? He's probably pulling my leg.

"Of course I don't. That's... I don't even know how to describe it. It's _weird_."

"You've really never done this before."

"That's what I keep trying to tell you."

Well, no wonder he acts like such an ass all the time! "You poor, deprived man. Come here; it's never too late to atone!"

"Atone for what?"

"All the years you've spent not swimming in cashdollars."

"I refuse to believe that this is what you'd choose to spend your time doing. And apparently have spent your time doing. With money I've _touched_."

"You thought I was kidding about that Olympic-pool-filled-with-money scheme?"

"It was the only plausible explanation. I thought you were going for shock."

Now he gets a glare. "Partially, yes. But I wasn't trying to shock you with the idea that I would consider that sort of thing fun – and I would – it was the amount of money that was supposed to make it impressive. You didn't take me seriously anyway."

"I'm starting to rethink my decision to take you seriously now."

I slump over and drag myself closer to the bucket seat at the front of the SynerJeep. I didn't think I was _that _weird. How was I supposed to know no one else did the whole rolling in money routine? "Come on, Jonathan, it's my _birthday_. Can't you just humor me?"

He crosses his arms. "Don't call me that while I'm in costume."

"Sorry. It's been a while since you donned your ceremonial garb."

"It has." He shifts his eyes from my face. Maybe he's missed being an active criminal more than I give him credit for. I'm sure messing with a computer all day isn't quite the same as really being on the run.

"Come on," I say, grabbing onto his arm above the finned gloves. "The car will drive itself, won't it?"

"You just want me to lay in money with you?"

"That's the idea, yeah. I just can't believe that anyone wouldn't enjoy it."

Doctor Impossible hesitates for a moment, then his gaze drifts toward my fingers around his arm. "Fine," he growls. He carefully crawls over the backs of the leather seats, not that he'd have to worry about hitting his head on the monster truck's ceiling anyway. I scoot back to make room for him, and he lays down next to me on his back, with the sour expression of a wet house cat.

"You can't lay on these dollars and tell me this isn't at least a little enjoyable."

"Not at all. I'd rather be sitting on something _cushioned_. I think there's a gold bar under my back."

"Well, _move _it." He just fidgets and grunts a little, absolutely trying his hardest to not have any fun. I don't really see how that's possible, but I guess people are more different from each other than I give them credit for. Supervillains are, at least, which is ironic since they all seem to have about the same goal. Maybe it's just me.

"I was right about the beach, you know."  
"Yes, you've reminded me many times," he mutters, wiggling around in his breastplate. "It doesn't mean you're right about everything."

Alright, that does it. I roll over halfway onto his chest, pinning his wrists down in both of my hands. I can feel the breastplate rise and fall uncomfortably against mine, quicker and quicker. He's stunned for a moment, doesn't know what to say. So he glances out the window and I follow his eyes. Sunlight filters in through the glass in diamond shapes. Outside, the world is blue-gray. "It goes underwater?" Now _there's _somewhere the police can't follow us.

Doctor Impossible arches an eyebrow at me, suddenly cocky again. "Yes, and on a few other choice terrains you might not associate a car with."

I can't help but shake my head and laugh aloud. Is there anything this vehicle can't do? Is there anything this man isn't utterly prepared for? Excepting myself, of course, or so I'd like to think. Before I can register what I'm doing, I lean down and return the favor he's been waiting for since that night on the beach. I know you're not supposed to open your eyes when you kiss, but I keep one open just a bit to see his widen in surprise. Then his eyelids flutter shut and he exhales a sigh through his nose.

Two things happen almost simultaneously. The first is that I pull away from him and happen to notice he wears a particularly bereft expression. The second is the SynerJeep's automated voice announcing, "Destination reached." Then a third thing happens, which is where things start to get strange. The car, which should be impenetrable, gives way to something that looks like a puddle of oil floating upon the back wall. I can feel every muscle in my companion's body tense beneath me. Obviously, this wasn't supposed to happen. I could've told him that.

A voice I recognize emanates from the puddle: "Hello, Synergy. I thought I'd find you here. I really don't want to know what you're up to at the moment, do I?" This particular voice has a low, almost melancholic tone and a thick accent that's nearly impossible to place unless you know where it's from. I happen to know it's Vietnamese mixed with several years of French study.

"Co Cong. I've been expecting you."

"Really?" It's more of a statement.

"Well, to a certain extent, I'm always expecting you to pop up sometime."

Doctor Impossible is frightened, which isn't easy to see unless you're close enough to see his eyes widen ever-so-slightly and feel his breath quicken. "Is that who I think it is?" questions the puddle voice. "You certainly know how to get around. I've seen some strange things, but this is pretty far up there."

"It probably is," I reply, scooting off of my companion and unpinning his wrists, which seems to calm him down considerably. "Will you materialize or something? You look like a damn oil spill."

"I can't," Co Cong says. "Whoever's handiwork this vehicle is, they did a good job. This is the best I can do."

"Um. Trunk, open," I say, and the trunk conveniently swings open.

"Synergy, who is this?" Doctor Impossible hisses in my ear, glaring distrustfully as the puddle slips to the floor of our basement (how the car got into the basement again, I have no clue).

"_This_ would be my arch-nemesis," I inform him.

"Your _what_?"

"Hey, look. Everyone has one."

"I thought yours was the League."

"You thought wrong."

The puddle gets to be almost six feet tall, but aside from growing a golden sickle and hammer on its chest, remains pretty much unchanged if you ask me.

"Part-time arch nemesis," Co says, with a shrug. If he can understand her, we'll be in luck. I'm at least pleased she decided not to go with her usual entrance routine, which includes waving a giant red flag emblazoned with the Communist party's crest around and singing some sort of anthem. Subtlety is not her forte. "Also part-time buddy. I'm edging more toward that at the moment."

I slide out over the SynerJeep's bumper, not bothering to grab my mask first. She's seen me enough times without it where there isn't much of a point. "So why come around here if you're not going to beat the crap out of me?"

She strolls over to meet me halfway and we exchange something of a handshake. Her high heels click seductively across the concrete. I'm slightly jealous, but you can't ride a hoverboard in stilettos. "A fair warning," she says. I can tell her attention is focused on Doctor Impossible, not me. Probably better that way. "You won't last much longer here. I'd suggest moving your base of operations."

"Why?" Please don't let it be impending nuclear Holocaust again. That was a pain in the _ass_.

"The League is onto you. You and your... _boyfriend_ are becoming a menace to society. They're tracing the bank hacks in China back here."

"Fair enough. Worried about all that money?" I challenge. I'm about to get smacked over the head, but I know Co Cong. She'll only hit me hard enough to keep me down for a little while. She has no purpose with me out of commission.

"Actually, this has the potential to work in my favor. I've explored several branches of this particular dimension's timeline. So, to answer your question, not in the least. I'm just doing my duty to make sure the probability is as swayed as it can be."

"Alright. We'll move. I owe you one."

"You owe me several ones. I'll get my due eventually."

I'm slightly frightened for the day when Co Cong decides I owe her enough. She's ungodly powerful, but for some reason she wastes it on me. In the meantime, I'm more frightened of the tension between the hero in front of me and the villain in the back of the SynerJeep. "And we are trusting her, _why_?" Doctor Impossible asks. It's more of a demand.

"The relationship is a little hard to explain," I'm forced to admit, "but she's trustworthy."

"I could've ratted you out to the League if I wanted to," Co interjects. "I didn't. But if I can find you, so can they."

"_They _aren't dirty puddle-jumping reds," I mutter.

"But they have a little friend," Co Cong adds, pointedly not taking my bait. Rio. I'd forgotten about her for the time being. I hate to admit it, because I feel a little bad saying this about an alternate-reality me, but she's easy to forget. Oh, well. We can't all be _Synergy_.

"Alright," says Doctor Impossible hesitantly. Can't expect him to trust her immediately, especially knowing we technically do fight a lot, but it's a start. "Synergy. Can I talk to you for a second?_ Privately_?"

"Of course," Co Cong says for me, moving back toward the basement wall with a certain catlike grace, then melting into it.

"She's not listening, is she?" he asks me apprehensively.

"I don't know," is all I can say. "She goes where she wants. If she thinks it's more beneficial for her to listen, then probably so. But I don't think she's really that interested." Some things, you learn to be able to tell eventually.

"What side is she on, anyway?"

"Her own. In case you didn't get the blatant references, Co Cong is a die-hard communist. American heroes don't care for her, so she doesn't tend to side with them. As far as I can tell, her goal is to install a worldwide communist regime."

"Oh. That's a little... strange."

I shrug. "No stranger than I am. Anyway, I'm sure you can see where our interests might clash."

"Hm. Yes."

"So we technically decided on the rivalry a few years ago. But sometimes we end up moving along some line I can't see that ends up with her whole commie thing, so I'm more useful alive than dead. I think that's how she sees it, anyway. She's confusing; she knows things a person shouldn't. Sometimes I wonder why she doesn't just pick a future with a government like she wants already installed and live there. The thing is, though, she's a bit of a paradox. She wants the attention of a hero, but in her little commie fantasies, she wouldn't be able to stand out at all because... well, communism. That's all I know."

"So she's a time traveler."

"Interdimensional time traveler. And you've seen how she sort of phases in and out. That, too."

He whistles. "_Damn_. And she hasn't beaten you to a pulp yet? Um, no offense."

"None taken. She keeps me around because I'm a tool of sorts to her." I have no shame in saying this. I've known it for years, and denying that Co Cong could utterly destroy me and literally every person who _just might be me _in some other universe isn't going to make it any less true. "Since I'm rather... specific... as far as goals go, I think she figures she isn't going to find another like me anytime soon, or if she did it'd take a lot of searching. Everyone needs a rival, after all, and she sort of heightens my status, you know? I fight Co Cong, people think I'm more powerful than I am. And they don't know how to feel about me. On one hand, I'm stealing all their dollars. On the other, at least I'm fighting the commie, right?"

"Um. Right. So you're rivals, but also allies?"

"That's a less complicated way to put it," I reply, rocking back and forth on my heels. I wish I had pockets. Can you sew pockets onto a metal skirt thing? And more importantly, would that look bad? "So, anyway, I think we ought to keep her for dinner."

"Why?" I explained the situation as best I could, but Doctor Impossible is not of the same era, or of the same convoluted relationship theme I seem to attract. A nemesis is a nemesis, simple as that. You fight them, and you don't invite them for dinner parties. Isn't that how it goes?

"Because she's my friend, it's my birthday, and she just gave us some very valuable information. For some reason or another, she thinks that your scheme, or my scheme, or someone's scheme is causation for a communist regime somewhere down the line. Best just to go with it."

Doctor Impossible slumps and suddenly looks very tired. "Alright. I don't want to go over this anymore. Let's have her for dinner. I trust you." Wow. Well, that's about the best thing he could say to me, I think, aside from the more obvious and less subtle, "_I love you Syn let's get married and buy ponies_." I wish myself all the best at getting him to ever utter that line in complete seriousness.


	8. Crucify my Enemies

I sigh morosely and pick at the chicken cordon bleu (courtesy of yours truly) in front of me while no one continues to notice. I should've seen it coming. I really should've. I don't attract all that many allies, so _naturally they'd all just be peachy keen together, wouldn't they_?

"Fascinating, Co Cong!" my overlord praises. I'm not _fascinating_. I'm probably not even intellectually stimulating. "And so you could theoretically travel to the zeta dimension?"

"Yes. Theoretically. I have not given it much thought." If only she'd take off those stupid goggles. Everyone's costume is dumb, and everyone except me is sitting around the table in full regalia. This is the most ridiculous dinner party I've ever been to in my life.

"But I have! Perhaps an alliance of sorts is in order. If our goals are as aligned as you claim." _Really?_ Does she know how hard I had to work to get him to even consider me a person? Oh, that steams me.

"Yes, sir. Our goals are quite aligned as far as I can see. My plan will work out perfectly as long as the probability stays in balance."

"The probability? And how does that work?"

"Well, ehm... it's, uh, something like a _bridge_. The dimensions are. They run in lines, some thick, and some thin. For some strings of time, the probability of them happening is so low that I cannot even enter the reality. It is so insubstantial that my own reality is incongruous. Futures grow and diminish depending on the decisions of the present. I take it upon myself to make the right decisions to ensure my future will be solid enough to leap into."

"Amazing, simply amazing." _Simply amazing_. Last I remember I was _very, very good_. At most. "How does this dimension crossing go, exactly? Do you have some sort of teleportation device?"

"No. I don't know how it works, only that I can cross the dimensional bridges."

"Can you see these bridges?" Now, keep in mind, she has never bothered before to tell _me _any of this. Her best friend. Also number one enemy, so it admittedly might've caused us some problems as far as fighting went, but _still_! Best friend!

"Clear as day, Doctor Impossible, sir." _I _called him 'sir' first, I hope she knows. Dibs. I mutter under my breath, but no one pays any attention.

"Can you see them now?"

Co Cong snorts. "No. They reside outside any sort of physical plane that time can exist in. There is a middle ground where all dimensions are visible, a sort of... intersection, I suppose. It has no name, but I call it the Sub-Dimensional Citadel. It's really quite grand, almost like a palace."

Doctor Impossible leans in toward her, as if being nearer to the pinko will grant him some of her oh-so-_fascinating _chemical-induced magic. I've tried that before. It doesn't work. "And this... Sub-Dimensional Citadel is where all possible realities meet?"

"More or less; they coalesce with the Singularity there."

"What is this Singularity?"

Resting one of her elbows on the table, Co Cong lifts her hand to her mouth and chews absently on the second knuckle of her index finger, which _I as her best friend _would know is what she does when she's thinking hard. "You must excuse me, Doctor. English is my third language and it is difficult sometimes to put things into the right words."

"Don't worry," he replies patiently. "It's no trouble at all."

"The Singularity is a sort of... certain reality. Regardless of other dimensions, the Singularity moves along on a path that cannot be changed. Strangely, I've found that the other dimensions rely on physical closeness to the Singularity's path to determine their similarity to it, and thus their likelihood of remaining passable. I try not to get too close to it."

"This isn't the Singularity?" Doctor Impossible asks.

"Oh, no, of course not," says Co Cong mirthfully. "I have never been to the Singularity, but I know it is not somewhere I would be able to escape from. When I have traveled to dimensions close to it, I find my powers begin to wane."

"That makes sense," concedes the Doctor, stroking his goatee. "Metahumans even in our world have a low... probability."

"Many other things are also deemed unlikely near to the Singularity. It frightens me, and I wonder if one day I will fall in. It has something of a gravitational effect."

"Well," Doctor Impossible says, smirking. "This is all very fascinating." _Everything _about Co Cong is fascinating. Yes, I get it. She's so exotic, so worldly, so smart, so powerful. Why do I even bother? "I never even thought this could all _exist_! I've known of interdimensional travel, but I never imagined it was quite so... _fantastical_."

Co smiles back at him. "Fantastical is a good word for it. Thank you very much for giving me someone to talk of these things with, Doctor." She stands, then, suddenly. "I feel I may have overstayed my welcome." And then her eyes shift over to me for the first time in, oh, an hour or so. Not that I've been keeping track or anything.

"Of course not!" he proclaims on behalf of the both of us. "You've given me a lot to think about, Co Cong. I really appreciate your visiting. Thank you for the warning and the conversation. It's a rare surprise to meet someone I can converse with on such a level." Yeah, I just bet it is.

"Please, sir, there's no need to flatter me. Synergy. Thank you very much for having me. I will stay in contact." She gives me a short bow, remnants of her lost Asian heritage, before simply sinking into the floor. For a few seconds the black puddle is visible, and then that disappears, too.

"Oh, I'm sure you will," I mumble, rising from my seat. I busy myself with scooping up the dinnerware while my partner in crime stands, still in a daze, almost lovestruck. I heave a long sigh. I'm sure I'm overreacting. I'm just being catty. Of course they'd get along well. I should've seen it coming. I couldn't have expected Doctor Impossible to remain guarded for so long around someone I myself had said was trustworthy. His trust for Co Cong, naturally, then, is an extension of his trust for _me. _That makes sense, doesn't it?

"So, Synergy, tell me more about your arch nemesis." A plate cracks in half in my hands. Whoops. And that was part of a matching set, too. It doesn't faze him.

"I told you what I know already," I remind him, trying not to sound too irritated as I cross the room to dump the broken dish in the trash.

"But is there anything else at all? Do you know how she got her powers?"

I take a deep breath. "Why didn't you ask her yourself if you wanted to know?"

"There was so much else to ask! Besides, she might have gotten offended."

Because you know he'd notice if _she _got offended. "And so you're asking me instead? You don't think that might offend her more?"

"Oh, of course, you're right. I should've thought of that."

"Well, it's alright. Your mind was temporarily muddled by how _fascinating _she was."

"Elizabeth," he breathes through gritted teeth, apparently not so patient and understanding anymore. English is only one of _my _first languages! I think that counts for something. "There's no reason to be... like this."

"Like what?" I ask, running water over the plates. "Who's being like anything?"

"You're jealous," he realizes, narrowing his eyes. The effect is impressive with the helmet on; I'll give him that. "Well, well, well. This is an interesting development."

"Mm-hmm. I'll bet it is." Was that spite? I don't think so. "Another interesting development for your feeble-minded little minion. A person makes a good lab rat, doesn't she?"

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Didn't you?"

"I didn't. I don't understand why you're so worked up all of a sudden."

"It was actually sort of a gradual thing." Which he would've noticed had he been paying an ounce of attention to me. "I really don't want to talk about Co Cong, alright?"

Crestfallen much? "Alright." And then he skulks off to the basement to do who knows what. I, meanwhile, have enough time alone to wash the dishes, pack up all of my clothing and costumes into suitcases, and take a shower. I am determined we vacate these premises as soon as possible.

Don't ask me why it was necessary to wear our costumes during our little road trip. I don't know. We're conspicuous enough already, considering we're barreling down the highway in the SynerJeep, towing a U-Haul trailer behind us. At least no one has to drive.

For all the magical appliances installed in the monster truck, a radio is not one of them (at least not that I can see; there are so many blinking buttons and dials and control panel-looking things up here I couldn't tell you whether there might be a toaster oven). Not that I care much for music anyway. I wouldn't know what to listen to, but it makes the silence between us all the more unbearable. There's almost visible tension as we sit, perfectly opposite each other, arms crossed. Every so often, I remove my gaze from the red-tinged window to search my partner's face, but he remains stoic. I can't tell whether he's lost patience for me, or whether he's angry, or apologetic, or hurt, or some combination thereof. Hell, my little issues might not even register to him. Who knows?

But it has gone on long enough. Between the palpable awkwardness and the dreariness of the winter landscape outside, this might as well be a scene from a movie. Maybe if I act now he'll forgive me for being a moron and things can just go back to the way they were. "Um. Doctor Impossible?"

No reply, but at least he looks up at me.

"I, uh, I just wanted to apologize. Yeah." Why is saying 'I'm sorry' so hard? I find myself folding into a smaller and smaller space at the corner of the SynerJeep's front seat.

"Oh. Is that it?"

No, of course it's not it. It never is. "I guess so. I'm just... sorry."

"Well." He steeples his fingers and looks absently out the window. The juxtaposition between gesture and expression strikes me as strange. "Thanks."

Okay, this is getting us nowhere. Time to up the ante a little. I manage to unfold myself from my corner of solitude, and carefully slide toward the center of the bucket seat. "Mind if I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

I feel like the effect would be better if I could turn on my puppy-dog eyes, but beneath the mask it wouldn't do much good anyway. "Doctor Impossible... do you _care _about me? Like, as a friend?"

He looks very displeased, almost... repulsed. "What kind of question is that?" Oh. Well, this just goes to show: don't ask a question if you're afraid of the answer. "Have I not made it obvious to you? _Of course _I care about you. _I kissed you._"

"But that was months ago! And it was the beach, and, well, maybe because I was in a swimsuit? I figured you were caught up in the moment or something."

"_No_! That's not how it works with me. I wanted to pursue... a relationship with you. Then you told me you didn't want that, and so I stopped. And you ask me if I care about you. Might I add, while you sit in my _birthday gift _to you."

Well, damn. My jaw has dropped like in a cartoon or something. Why is it that I somehow did not manage to add "feeling like an idiot" to the list of "Things Hanging Out with a Supergenius Might Cause"? After the shock wears off, I'm assaulted by a wave of guilt. This isn't how it's supposed to go. Not at all. _I'm _supposed to be the one endlessly pining for _his _love and affection, not the other way around! It's practically in the minion's job description!

I'm so absorbed in my world turning inside out I jump a foot off my seat when he laughs, loud and strangely... not evilly. "Good lord, Synergy! And you were jealous of Co Cong!"

"There's no reason to rub it in," I mutter, hunching my shoulders to hide a very relieved smile. It's times like these one regrets one's decision to be the sexy supervillainess and not invest in a mask that covers one's whole face.

I can feel his eyes boring holes in my golden armor. "I would say there is plenty of reason to rub it in," he remarks, and I hear the fabric of his cape shift against the SynerJeep's leather seats, but I don't look up for fear of revealing myself, so it surprises me all the more when his gloved hand slips over mine. "But I'm not going to elaborate. The point is there's nothing for you to doubt in me. Alright?"

I nod.

"We're _partners_. As close to teammates as two villains can be, I would say. Especially since you're not in the way of my goals, so I won't have to kill you later... probably." I only realize he's joking once he chuckles nervously after seeing the look on my face.

"But, Co Cong..."

"Never mind Co Cong. She's good for an interesting conversation, but she isn't my partner. However," and here he pauses to loop an arm around my shoulder. I can certainly admire the fact that he's trying hard. "It might do us both some good to be on equal ground as far as she's concerned."

"Oh ho ho," I sarcasm (if that's not a verb, it ought to be for the sake of the effect), "So what you're getting at is that even though it might _offend _Ms. Fantastic, and even if it bothers me, you're still going to keep prying until you get more information. How very villainous of you."

"Years of experience in all things villainous will do that," he says, almost leering at me. It's honestly a little bit frightening.

"Well, alright, since I won't hear the end of it," I mutter. "The only other information tidbits I have on Co Cong are her origin story and a little about her background. Apparently she was born during France's occupation of Vietnam, and lived through the Vietnam war. She got sprayed over by a particularly nasty experimental strain of Agent Orange, and _voila,_ there you have it, super commie interdimensional deity-powers."

He blinks a couple of times. "That simple?"

"If there's more to it, I was never told." Since he isn't giving me the same look I used to get from the people I took off the streets as a teenager, I use the opportunity to scoot closer against his side. With the world being as cold as it is, even Doctor Impossible feels refreshingly toasty.

"Where can _I _get some of that stuff?"

"Don't you even think about it. I'm sure you of all people would know how awful Agent Orange was for you. It's a serious carcinogen."

"Why would I know?" he questions, almost rhetorically.

"Because Co Cong wasn't the only one to get her powers from some product of that war. I'm willing to bet you've looked into it at one point."  
"Caught red handed," he admits.

"Oh! I get it!"

"Get what?"

"The joke!"

"What joke?"

"Caught red handed... it was a war on Communism. Very funny."

"Oh. I didn't think of that." His eyes shift around, like he doesn't really know what to say at this point, which is probably not a bad interpretation on my part. I inwardly applaud myself for succeeding to create more awkwardness just when I had managed to celebrate some small victory, and all because of a misconstrued bad joke. I presume my ability to find those has something to do with my ability to create especially awful banter.

And then we don't talk again for a while. But it's nice. There's a cordial silence, a certain togetherness that, in my experience, only arises in the space of privacy within a vehicle, for one reason or another. I don't often drive and I have never owned a car until now, so I don't experience this much, but the League owned several cars and trucks. I didn't particularly enjoy riding around with the Civilian or Pinstripe, but as I've explained before, I got along well enough with Beastmaster. I may have even had something of a crush on him, but he was such a damn _goody two-shoes_. And also several years older than me. And also more than likely romantically involved with Feral, but it was mostly just because his sense of justice was so very generic that I never pursued anything in the way of a relationship.

I mean, _really_. At one point I asked him, because I was honestly curious and honestly doubting my resolve regarding the whole hero thing. Young Synergy (or _Ectoplasma), _decked out in her stupid blue and gray costume with the League's red logo slapped across the chest, no cherry red lips, no high heels, none of that intrinsic sex appeal I try (very hard, might I add) to exude – and I had asked the tall, lanky, scantily-clad twenty-something what it was he fought for. And he didn't have an answer. He did a lot of mumbling, hemmed and hawed, didn't know what to reply with. But that was enough for me. It dawned upon me that he did it because it was _expected_. Of course. Beastmaster would rather be loved than hated; doesn't everyone? But it was the people he cared about. Maybe his friends in the League. Maybe his _girlfriend _in the League. One way or the other, his sense of justice was simply what was expected. There was no driving force. He worked for the good guys because that was what people wanted from him, and like a dog, he was so very eager to please.

Not unlike myself, in fact. But my stop-right-there-dastardly-villain mentality was unfortunately overridden, in part by ego, in part by the addiction to money, in part by lack of drive, and then the nagging, ever-present thought: Why? Why should I work for these people? Can they shoot superheated plasma from their hands? Would they protect _me _if they could? What do I owe them? I realized then that I had no wish to please anyone except myself. Not even Beastmaster, not my fellow heroes, they who had adopted my redheaded stepchild self off the streets. Whether they ended up valuing me or even liking me was debatable, but they certainly did me a favor: they showed me who I was.

And lo and behold, once I got off their stupid team, did away with their logo, my affiliation, my _life_, I became stronger than I had ever been before. You don't accumulate thirty trillion dollars being _Rio_. There's a reason she seems so useless. I know it, but obviously she doesn't. Maybe someday she will, or maybe it won't ever come to her. I couldn't care less one way or the other. I have my own goals now, my own _issues_, even.

And my own team. Yes, I ran from the League with a selfish wish to be my own hero. But that was before I met my... _liege_. I suppose. Is that the right word for him? Compared to my utterly incomprehensible wish to serve him indefinitely, the idea that I should strike out on my own seems almost petty. True, it was what I wanted eight years ago, but what a long time that is! There is so much room for change within that time period, and so much room for a catalyst to appear and sweep me (head over heels, even?) into a new obsession. _This _is what and where I was meant to be. Perhaps a decade from now I'll see things differently, assuming I haven't been incarcerated or killed off by then, but at the moment it seems ridiculous that anything else could draw me in so much as his incredible, egocentric, megalomanic _zeal_. Perhaps I still lack drive. Perhaps I was waiting for the right person to drive _me._

It's not like I'm a blind follower. Maybe somewhat drunk, maybe seeing him through the haze of utter devotion, maybe a meandering, confused idiot without his guiding hand, but certainly not _blind_. All my time alone, reading, counting money, napping, cooking, and none of this has ever crossed my mind, whether because I didn't want to think of it or simply couldn't comprehend the strength of his mental hold over me while outside his _physical _hold on me. But the attraction is irresistible and irrevocable as a drug addiction, made all the more obvious at times like this, when I'm curled up inside myself with his arm a protective wall from the world outside my contemplations.

Almost subconsciously, I snuggle against my sadistic security blanket, at the same time scrunching my eyes closed. Why does this have to be so confusing? It would all be so easy if this was just some nuance, some meaningless "oh, and..." of our relationship, but it is an all-consuming entity in and of itself: the elephant in the room. How long is this little car ride supposed to take, anyway? I'm going crazy here. Where are we even _going_? I realize suddenly that my muddled thoughts have managed to neglect that very vital piece of information.

I'm about to ask, I even attempt at eye contact, and then I notice my criminal mastermind has dozed off. The lack of pensive thought of a similar origin on his part makes me feel strangely insignificant.

I have to admit, though, sleeping isn't a half bad idea. We woke this morning early and solitary. I'm missing the coffee and the contact, even if things have improved enough for him to be napping against me, which I suppose is quite a leap. I consider myself forgiven for the time being. Tucking my legs up close to me, I press myself against Doctor Impossible so that our bodies touch in a long line, and, wishing his armor was a little more comfortable to rest my head on, I shut my eyes and will myself to relax.

"Destination reached."

The SynerJeep's robotic voice jolts me awake. I wasn't aware I was asleep, but that's how these things go, isn't it? The sky outside is the dim gray-orange of winter sunset, and I'm starving. How long was I out for? This probably should've been the first thing I noticed, but it wasn't. I'm sideways. Or, rather, lying on my side, still curled up, but drooling upon something significantly more comfortable than a breastplate.

It takes me a second of wondering. Then I almost leap from my companion's lap.

"S-s-sorry," I sputter, referring to the darkened spot on his leggings.

Doctor Impossible stares at me quizzically; he's obviously been awake longer than I have. "It's fine," he replies, almost laughing. "Want to sleep in a bed now?"

I'm not tired at all, except for what I recognize as merely the sluggishness that comes from waking up. "No. Not really. Thanks for letting me sleep... on you."

"It was my pleasure," he says, winking. Good lord. Is he _trying _to be so creepy?

I reach up to smooth my hair, but luckily the wig doesn't change its shape after being smooshed somewhere as readily as real hair. It's of a very good quality. Glancing out the window, I note that we're in the parking lot of a seedy hotel. Where, I couldn't tell you. It's snowing outside, and if this place is where we're staying, then between the snow and the promises held by the grungy yellow sign on the building's front, I'd rather sleep in the car. You'd think I'd be used to sub-par living quarters after the storage unit, and snow, having a birthday in December, but I do my best to live in the lap of luxury and I grew up in Georgia, so the answer is unfortunately _no _on both counts.

Why didn't we see them coming?

Why didn't the SynerJeep alert us somehow? It should've found them before we did... right?

Not so, apparently. The vehicle suddenly shudders as something smashes into my side, and I very nearly jump back onto Doctor Impossible's lap.

"What was that?" We say it almost in unison, then, one awkward stare later, I see a tentacle of purple (very likely actually blue, but the windows are red, you know) lash across the windshield. That explains things well enough. How very lucky. I've been waiting for the chance to show Rio who the superior Elizabeth Hernandez is.

I'm so excited my hands are past the point of shaking. I vault over the SynerJeep's front seats, grab my hoverboard from the wall, and slam my feet onto it in one smooth motion, unexpectedly glad for the mandatory full-regalia ride. A second later, I'm flying out through the trunk of the truck, flattened to the board's surface. I narrowly dodge the U-Haul trailer with a wild spin. I'd forgotten it was there. But now I'm headed skyward.

"Oh my, the League of Righteous Fists," I coo, standing. Before I can continue my introductory monologue, the Civilian uncouthly shoots at me, but maneuvering away is easy when you have the whole sky at your disposal. "A warm welcome! How kind."

"You'll never succeed, villain!" yells Beastmaster from the ground. He ought to know he doesn't stand a chance against me. No animal can move as fast and as dexterously in the air as my hoverboard. Okay, maybe a hummingbird, but no animal that would do any real damage to me.

"That's what you think!" I retort. "But you don't know! This plan is... _just what the Doctor ordered_!"

I can almost hear Doctor Impossible's palm smack his forehead from here. That was an awful joke. But it's not like anyone's recording this, right? If they are, they're in for some crappy television.

"We didn't come here to trade witty banter, bitch," calls Pinstripe Chrome. I turn, too late. The bullet strikes me in the shoulder armor and I spin out of balance. This is an ambush! He couldn't have gotten onto the top of the hotel so quickly if they'd simply been following us. How did they know we would come here?

I'll ask them once I've thoroughly pummeled them. Once I steady myself outwardly, I find my steadiness inwardly as well. It doesn't take but a second, and then my fingers glow bright red. "Alright," I call back. "No more banter. Bring it, fucker." Me and Pinstripe have never gotten along. Beating him to as near dead as he can get, predictably, always feels so good.

The kid snarls and releases a spray of bullets in my general direction. Blocking is almost art. I turn, drawing a line of translucent crimson in the air. The metal pellets are stopped in their tracks, if not by my plasma then by my cape, my board, my armor, whatever. The problem with the League is that two of their top players fight with guns. After one comes the other, but I'm ready for the Civilian. His gunfire bounces off a shield I create in a split second.

What I'm not ready for is to plummet down through the air, my board suddenly deactivated. I manage a pillow of psychic energy to cushion my fall just in time, but my ankles feel crushed. Guess I'm not getting up anytime soon. Who could've done that? Did the board simply _malfunction_? Somehow I don't believe any invention of Doctor Impossible's could do that. I hear the click of the SynerJeep's door. "_No!" _I yell before I can stop myself. "I can handle them! Don't get out!"

Too shocked to make another shield in time to stop the next wave of gunshots, I hide beneath my cape. Once they stop pelting me, I sneak a look around. Who is _he_? Bathed in white, glowing softly, half-visible hoops of blue orbit the man, who seems crunched up inside a shimmering ball. His feet don't touch the ground. _Nothing _does. It's as if he's floating inside some sort of egg. Is he an alien? I've never seen him before. His body is so white, like one of those ancient Greek statues. No irises, no pupils in his eyes, just light.

An explosion behind me catches my attention. Doctor Impossible, bemused and frightened, holds a smoking power staff. I look back and notice the man's lips are moving. Did he break the power staff, and my hoverboard, as well? No one else in the League could've done something like that, which leaves this newcomer to answer. Experimentally, I fling a tendril of my own power at him, but it seems to caress his forcefield egg before falling limply to the ground. This is... alarming.

A scream in challenge is my only warning before Rio launches herself at me. I have just enough time to free my useless feet from the hoverboard before she's on me and we're grappling, each drenched in her own trademark color.

"For a supergenius, your partner isn't very smart," she quips.

"What makes you say that?" I growl back, wishing I could kick her in the stomach or something, but my legs feel ruined.

"You two go careening down the highway in the same vehicle you used to rob a bank yesterday and you think we won't find you?"

"It was actually something of an attempted mockery."

"Well, it didn't pan out, did it?"

"It still has the potential to. You don't think it's a bit unfair to fight me when my legs are possibly broken?"

"So what if it is?"

"Aren't you the good guy? Mercy is pretty much a requirement."

"How about a merciful death, in that case?"

"_Whoa. _Death? You don't think that's a bit... extreme?" On the last word, I manage to knee her in the abdomen. It hurts like hell, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

After she gathers herself (I am pleased that I seem to have knocked the wind out of her, but it doesn't help loosen her hold on my wrists), she presses her face close enough that I can feel her breath on my cheek: "Extreme? Nothing is too extreme for _you. _I _hate _you."

"My arch-nemesis slot is taken." Hot damn, I'd be shaking in my boots if I could feel my legs. Seriously. What is _wrong _with her? I'm bad and she's good, it shouldn't be anything _personal_! Right?

Apparently she doesn't have anything left to retort with, so she releases one of my wrists and punches me on the face, _hard_. I hear my jaw crack. Good thing I like soup and ice cream. Thinking quickly, I position my freed hand between us and unleash a blast that manages to knock her off of me. What now? I can't think of anything I can do that will hurt her. She's undoubtedly immune to the effects of my plasma, just like me. The only thing I manage to do is roll weakly on my side and spit a mixture of blood and saliva in her general direction. Oh, yeah. _That'll _show 'em.

Unluckily enough, my empty threat of an insult hits its mark. Rio turns, eyes burning. I kid you not, she growls at me like some sort of wild animal. It's all I can do to throw up a shield before she hits me, and keep it up. I could call for help. The League might be vicious, and one of them in particular, but they can't be a match for Doctor Impossible. I'm stubborn, though. And my tongue is bleeding, and the inside of my cheek. My jaw might be dislocated. Obviously some of us work out more than others. I would say it was in fact made _painfully _obvious. Lord, I think I'm in shock.

I don't know how long Rio tries to attack me through my shield. She isn't even using her power! This is ridiculous. My legs are useless, my mouth is burning; I have no other defense. I hold on as long as I possibly can, groping desperately at the last few shreds of my exhausted psyche. Finally, I can grope no longer, but, most favorably, it seems I'm more important alive than dead, because I can vaguely see someone restraining a white and blue shape, glowing at her extremities. I can't hardly see any more than that. I manage to catch a glimpse, aided by my ears, of the SynerJeep speeding off, trailer in tow. Just before everything goes to the proverbial "fade to black", I feel a rough kick in the ribs, accompanied by a mockingly false soprano: "_Bring it, fucker_." God, I hate Pinstripe.


End file.
